We were kids without fathers,
Scattered in paints of sorrow
East, west, and everywhere
We were goats
Scampering to survive
Come rain, come sun
Until we were pleated animals like
Meant to be rubbed into the muds of despair.
And so since we couldn’t get a taste of the Adam’s apple
We taught ourselves to taste
the bittersweet experience
Of guns, matches and swords
Under the leadership of a man
Who reared us like he did his cows.
And so we grazed
With ammunition, cartridges, explosives
Life is fickle, isn’t it?
But then our reward is high in the sky,
Somewhere beyond the blue clouds,
Where eternal bliss awaits our rough sojourn on earth
That’s why we marched in the Meadows
Our ears shut to the rhythm of pleas, cease fires—
Our eyes have seen nature’s nakedness as she took her bath in waters
Mixed with trees, grasses, bushes and blood
Rinsed with shells, drones, snake bites and flesh eaters
And brought forth as a new born terrorist group
This is our story
In case we no longer exist.