As we swing on the sands, our shadows darken,
Like a country In chaos, leftsided.
Tonight, the moon cries about something outside herself,
four miles away…On a cloud that parts her in idyll of blues.
the cloud only feeds the Akiri lake with his reflection.
We watch him dragging –
he shoves the moon to behold another apocalypse.
And Mama told us to be quiet. Quiet?
“Hush! No noise in Africa.
Peace is a silent bystander”
But pain isn’t a prickle of a neddle.
if it is … Even a child could bear the pierce of a prick.
Pain isn’t the lash of a master’s Koboko.
If it is… Bruises could be wrapped;
my little girl utterly spiffs up a wound.
But, pain is a calamity; always haunting.
Like abnormal outsiders, cosmically dressed;
Like deported ghosts from heaven’s border.
This pain is internal.
Like an onion- a mother of endless birth.
Why would we watch a moon die like this?