Editor's ChoiceMusingsPoetry

Our Island

Cry if you can,
There’s an empty drum
To house your oceanic tears
That falls like rainfall
In the heart of harmattan.

Our wines have been infested
By those who fed us pleasure
With dungs in the hilly habitat
And island in the deserted lagoon.

Islands are not beautiful
In the beautiful songs of Africa;
They’re marked by mosquitoes
Dancing at the claps
Our hands could cheer them with.

Weep and weep,
There’s happiness
In this devastating state.

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