Moles

too many moles in the grain
pollute the taste of the meal
nothing wholesome remains
nothing healthy survives

but the greater tragedy
is the farmer who ruins his own harvest,
who mixes poison with the grains
meant for brothers, friends, companions
a banquet turned to a burial.

and Naija bleeds...
every dawn breaks with another name,
another cry swallowed by dust,
another family counting shadows
instead of children.

how does a nation heal
when the granary is corrupted,
when the watchmen trade their lamps for coins,
when the very meal meant to nourish
becomes the blood of its people?

how do we rise
when the ones called to protect
become moles in the grain,
worms in the wood,
poison in the pot?

still…
somewhere beneath this wounded soil
the earth cries in sorrow at
embrace of too many victims that
the seeds in it forgot how to grow

yet, somewhere, in this forlorn farm
a seed of mercy waits
for honest hands, clean rain,
and a dawn that no longer tastes of fear

Ifeanyichukwu Onwughalu
© 19/11/2025