Even in the mist of griefs and pains,
When the story shall be divulged,
No matter whose death it shall report
The brave ones, shall speak
About the days and nights of dolor.

Our Dawn and Noon dish
Became supper,
Sometimes were none,
We lived on codes,
001, 010, 100, 000.

Dry leaves became our beds,
Cassava flour our favorite,
Uncompleted buildings, our abodes,
We died, our children took the life
They died, there children took the path.

They came with promises travelling their lips,
They lifted the lamp of love,
Gave vents to our heads and hearts,
Was a good path to tread, we thought
But were foxes, who undermined our constitution.

They fattened themselves on lies,
Measured their reigns with numbers of balls sacrificed,
Pools of colorful blood,
Lined their coats with dark currency.

And this trip their tongues of:
Theirs of the people,
For the people,
By the people.

Again this rolled off:

Our cat may look at their king,
The dog may dine with the hare,
The cat may wine with the rat,
We shall know not apart
The elephant tusks with the cow horns.

We sat through centuries of pain,
Days of agonies
Gazing at their lies.

We prefer, when the tiger roared,
And sent shivers down our spine,
When the hawk swooped for the mouse,
When the dog ran after the hare,
And we for our life in awry.


If we had known him to be this,
We would have decollated his head
And play them to his children.

If we had known him to be
A lying impostor, who had an axe to grind,
We would have crucified him
And made history out of him.

If we had known him to be this,
A pompous prig, we would have butchered him into pieces,
Which he is doing now.

If we had looked at him with our ancestors eyes,
We would have seen the hidden fox face behind his sheep veil.

We taught our hunger will be banished,
Our thirst will be assuaged,
From his flowing milk of words
But nay, he mocked us at our face.

We taught of him to be our Messiah,
To proffer solution to the longed impediments.

We taught of him to be a parka,
Against the tempest storm of sweetness.

Nay, he made horror of human sacrifice.

We taught he was of Solomon,
But not all grey hair are old.

If we had known
Our thoughts to be useless,
*A bird of ours is worth two in their bush*

His wills are willed to his folks
Into their dead father's shoe
Chip of an old block
Do better than I did.

*Paciolo Pen Saint*