NO PEACE IN THIS LAND | By Adéníyì Abórìsàdé






The taste of peace in this land is now
Tart and our hearts are sullied,
Like the standing moribund ruins,
Remnant of the raging conflagration
That ruined our land,
And razed our homes to desolation;
We have our hearts suffused with fumes
And hazes of burnt carcasses,
And our ears treated to the ominous tones,
Fair dirges of the heinous raven,
Who bears abroad this message of mess.
We linger in hope,
And stagger in awe and despair,
In deep sore and drier sorrow,
If there may be hope of a promising morrow.

The last night was the fairest;
That buried our comrades,
Under the tick blanket of horror;
That birthed the whirlwinds
That hurled our kinsmen,
To dreaded shores beyond Hades.

There is no longer peace at home,
Not in this land anymore:
Our once bright and halcyon days at
Home have cheated on us;
They have all passed with the callous stranger,
Tempter sent and tempest tossed,
That crept into our land in the womb of the dawn,
And took mother away to her latest
But last venture upon these plains:
Yes, we know, mother will not come back again,
For it happened to our neighbor yesterday,
Who had his gruesome sentence spelt
From the lips of the assailants’ riffles.

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