SELF PORTRAIT OF A BROKEN COUNTRY AS A CLOUDAGE OF HOPE.

In my country where corpses are

witnesses to the sky’s face—

We stepped into God,

shadows kissing every crack on the body of walls

Mothers burying their faces into gold,

A boy isn’t a rose petal,soft skin crusting the

Heads of men,plastering the burden of goons

On the solemn face of nights.

The song we wanted to sing was not wanted,

What the skymen wanted us to see were in the void before us.

The wind kept coming and retreating

With the slimy feel of a barren home,

I had forgotten all the stones it came with

I had forgotten a thousand name I buried

I had forgotten my song.

The casualties and their houses spoke of so many silence.

I have suffered in the midst of this home.

I wanted my song to clean

The blood on them just like how a country’s name  

Wipes out drought . The dust lifts themselves, my father’s voice called out to me.

From the spot, I knelt with someone’s name beside me,I saw bodies

Dying with songs in between their teeth.

Outside this country’s mother’s home,I knocked, I walked between the walls

That held the portrait of heroes,

 there isn’t a voice that didn’t sing silence.

What purpose walks out of love?

What leads the leg back to a broken home?

I have steeped out of home.

We are fated to watch killers kill.And

To you that learns to chew prayers,the prophecy of God is a mile away.

Within my bones are thousands of songs, is it love if I sing,

Is it love if I don’t?,tell me the tale of a broken country

My face sits beside a cloudage of hope.