Soil,
Don't be fertile more,
Don't be a mother;
Child-traffickers, like mad dogs,
Are moving everywhere.
Don't conceive any green more,
Don't conceive any forest;
The blue-eyed woodcutters, like butchers,
Are sharpening their axes.
O Soil,
Rather become a desolate graveyard,
Rather become a melancholic desert.
O Soil
Sayeed Abubakar
Poet's note: Prose-poem
(1)
Poem topics: child, green, mother, blue, desert, conceive, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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