Thursday, September 8, 2016

Stephen Okereke Micheal writes

Rest not on this battle line

Drawn by the fathers
Who fathered our fathers,
Who spent their years on the fence
Sowing seeds of thorns in defence.
Cage not the atom of grief
Hatched by our fathers' mischief
When their days were spent in knickers
Their foresight peeping through their knee cap
Seeing nothing but nothing.
Let death swallow every bit of anger
Whose venom is incised with ink
On the plain sheet of our hearts
Breathing in and out bitterness
When our diaphragms flex their muscles.
Let's break out of the pod of vengeance
Let hell be the portions of our father's err
Let's wrap our hands round-about peace
For the sake of our children yet unborn.

Satan sement l'ivraie (Satan Sowing Tares) -- Félicien Rops

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