An Ode to the Bereaved Land




To the nights when we toil on wintry streets 

And the Days when we sweat in the fiercely sun

Without end we have shed:

Our tears! Our blood! Our sweat!

We worked through the night (sigh)

Our backs curled up like smoked king mackerel 

Our mouths hooked with pins between out kneels like over dried cat fishes on mama's smoking racks

We toil endlessly on self inflicted exiles working long hours in foreign fields

Forced out of our father's land not by slavers but by the painful greed of our own kinsmen (sigh)

We cry tears we cannot control not because of the weight of the burdens we bear but alas! out of pity for kits and kins left behind 

We mourn silently with swears under our breath wailing, moping, wishing and groping 

We pray, casting aspersions, we wait, eyes wide open ears to the ground

We stand at the post of doors peeking with elongated necks like spear beaked fishes

We peek back at the lands we know full of potentials 

Waiting, hoping, alas longing!

Believing, anticipating and even dreaming that one day our children can go back and occupy peacefully the lands we once called home

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