Postcolonial

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They left us a birth prize
We all believe to be gold
They glided to the front
They called it bronze
The city engulfed by ire.

We concluded again they left us silver,
They called it stone
The city bewailed of inequity
Blood, blood….
The city unrest
The antagonists sacrificed.

“Either bronze or stone show us our birth prize” The voracious compatriots claims trickled to the negotiating corner.
In spite of all words,
Their actions betrayed our claims.

Again, the city soaked in dread,
Antagonists wanted,
Heedless, we protested
“Give us our birth prize”
Antagonists thundering voices
silenced with prototypes.
Shrewdly, they dance to the city
with drums and packages: lustrous education, fat salary, electricity, infrastructures, healthy economy, social amenities, health care…
They boast of frequent return of all only with the birth prize.
In their wit, we found relief, and
We drummed home to feed on
repercussion of a new dawn.

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