Wednesday, March 7, 2012


I can not find words to poeticize what has happened of late
I can not because I do not want them to be forgotten
like theirs was fake, rotten like theirs was a slate,
written and you got yours chalked on the broadness of the blackboard
like theirs was to be left alone and not to be told
like yours was all we had to tell
like they were rooters not heros forcefully pardoned from life
sent to return to the soil below the stamping feet that took it to the streets
like he did not give the order "Shoot to kill"
why else did the bastards shoot and kill their neighbour's son?
Like he did not give the order "Shot to kill"
So shot they did for puppet soldiers they are.
Shot to please the king they cared not whom the bullet hit
shot to instill the fear of hot steel and the king(s) on sanjika hill
Shot! shot! shot until nineteen bodies were left still
left to cover the front pages of 240 billed papers.
Yes their winds came with songs to encourage us on.
Windy songs that enticed us upon.
From our north to our south our east to our west
But we only won words and lost our freedom, ourselves
we became sharp idioms at the tip of their pens
we became bargaining chips
We lose life we get used we became useful idiots
we became bullets in their gun's barrel.
We kill each other we get killed
We lose our brotherhood and they lose nothing at all.

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