Details |
Abas Obot Poem
Which system is better?
I do believe in none.
If man can't think better,
We would all pay the price.
Is Capitalism wrong?
Then which one is your right?
Oh communism is cool,
Free trade is a taboo,
Things belong to a few,
And tyrants can rule,
And anyone who's against,
Finds himself at stake;
Oh socialism is good,
What an utopian boo?
Prepare for low economic growth,
Where entrepreneurship is low,
And business motivation is given
Not just a big blow.
May be fascism is the best,
Where dictators aren't naive,
Devils and demons can
easily win their bets,
And everyone without has
nothing but the less.
Leftists or 'rightists',
I don't really care,
Marxist or Nacists,
Don't mean so much to me,
If humans do not change,
System changes are void.
Copyright © Abas Obot | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Abas Obot Poem
We all saw the lousy fearful storm,
Up the sky of our newborn town,
Everyone thought it’s a summer’s dawn,
Where there couldn’t be heavy rain nor storm;
We closed our ears to the weeping sky,
Even when the cloud was right in our eyes,
The suffering sky kept yelling in pain,
But all its calls were left in vain;
The cloud was just above us all,
East and South to West and North,
The West didn’t care because it’s against the east,
No one knew we would soon lose our peace;
The darkness reached its thickest depth,
The northern sky had turned to red,
The Eastern soil mourned its thousand loss,
The onset of the great exodus;
Back to the East everyone cried,
What a journey of thousand miles,
Some on feet both day and night,
Losing every sense of hope and smile;
The South East begged for a glimpse of light,
South South joined in awful cry,
Everyone needed a rising sun,
To bring the hope that had just gone;
Then rose a rising yellow sun,
From the shore of the roaring sea,
Everyone knew it’s too bloody deep,
But it’s light was enough that all could see;
Amidst the celebration of the new sunrise,
The day was still as dark as night,
A mix of light and darkness strife,
The roaring sea reached its highest tide;
A controversial friendship of North and West,
To deem the light of the rising sun,
The whole world watched the brutal game,
The media streamed the awful scene;
Millions of lives both young and old,
Forced to face the shameful woe,
Bloodshed and famine showered like rain,
Millions forced to die in pain;
The stormy cloud had taken its rest,
May be waiting for another lucky day,
No victor no vanquish was all they claimed,
But that for sure wouldn’t raise the dead;
“Unity and peace” was all they hailed,
What an illusory unity of heaven and hell?
Would East and North really become friends?
That’s a story for another day;
Yes, we’ve all claimed to have won the game,
Forgetting the extreme loss and aimless pain,
The million ghosts still haunt to and fro,
Now the fate of our town is still unknown;
The rising yellow sun was forced to set,
But its blood stain still shows its trail,
Its red yellow light may not soon get set,
But it may forever be our nightmare;
Oh you Rising Yellow Sun hear me now,
When shall thy true light come to stay,
That the souls of thy slayed may find their rests,
Perhaps this thy wrath may have an end?
When shall thy children come back home,
From where they were scattered long ago,
When shall the great hope come to live,
So thy glory might fill the sky?
Copyright © Abas Obot | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Abas Obot Poem
We all saw the lousy fearful storm,
Up the sky of our newborn town,
Everyone thought it’s a summer’s dawn,
Where there couldn’t be heavy rain nor storm;
We closed our ears to the weeping sky,
Even when the cloud was right in our eyes,
The suffering sky kept yelling in pain,
But all its calls were left in vain;
The cloud was just above us all,
East and South to West and North,
The West didn’t care because it’s against the east,
No one knew we would soon lose our peace;
The darkness reached its thickest depth,
The northern sky had turned to red,
The Eastern soil mourned its thousand loss,
The onset of the great exodus;
Back to the East everyone cried,
What a journey of thousand miles,
Some on feet both day and night,
Losing every sense of hope and smile;
The South East begged for a glimpse of light,
South South joined in awful cry,
Everyone needed a rising sun,
To bring the hope that had just gone;
Then rose a rising yellow sun,
From the shore of the roaring sea,
Everyone knew it’s too bloody deep,
But it’s light was enough that all could see;
Amidst the celebration of the new sunrise,
The day was still as dark as night,
A mix of light and darkness strife,
The roaring sea reached its highest tide;
A controversial friendship of North and West,
To deem the light of the rising sun,
The whole world watched the brutal game,
The media streamed the awful scene;
Millions of lives both young and old,
Forced to face the shameful woe,
Bloodshed and famine showered like rain,
Millions forced to die in pain;
The stormy cloud had taken its rest,
May be waiting for another lucky day,
No victor no vanquish was all they claimed,
But that for sure wouldn’t raise the dead;
“Unity and peace” was all they hailed,
What an illusory unity of heaven and hell?
Would East and North really become friends?
That’s a story for another day;
Yes, we’ve all claimed to have won the game,
Forgetting the extreme loss and aimless pain,
The million ghosts still haunt to and fro,
Now the fate of our town is still unknown;
The rising yellow sun was forced to set,
But its blood stain still shows its trail,
Its red yellow light may not soon get set,
But it may forever be our nightmare;
Oh you Rising Yellow Sun hear me now,
When shall thy true light come to stay,
That the souls of thy slayed may find their rests,
Perhaps this thy wrath may have an end?
When shall thy children come back home,
From where they were scattered long ago,
When shall the great hope come to live,
So thy glory might fill the sky?
Copyright © Abas Obot | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Abas Obot Poem
THE BLACK TUESDAY
(Tribute to the Victims of the EndSARS Lekki Tollgate Massacre in Lagos, Nigeria; Tuesday, October 20, 2020)
Dark is the night,
Darker the soul,
Fathomless depths,
Stories to be told;
We were not armed,
but killed at the war front,
We meant no harm,
Yet our lives are gone;
We've been cut off,
In the middle of our days,
Our lives had been cut short,
Without a delay;
Our stars are darkened,
And fallen from the sky,
All our dreams have been stolen,
By this awful strife;
We thought we would fly,
Someday to lift our nation high,
Now our journey has ended,
But the struggles had just begun;
All we needed was a better nation,
A country that is worth a home,
But what we received was destruction,
A pain that took us to eternal home;
There was an anthem in our mouths,
And Flags in our hands,
We sat on the ground,
Begging for a chance.
The hard souls had no mercy,
They listened not to our cries,
They removed every CCTV,
And turned off our lights;
Tonight, our blood weeps,
The stain on the flag is the witness,
That once in history,
A nation wasted its innocent citizens;
If being a Nigerian was a crime,
You should have told us on time,
Maybe we would have found a better place,
Then get slaughtered this way.
Yes! Bullets have pierced our brains,
And slit our throats,
Our bodies have felt the pains,
But safer is our souls;
We died as heroes of our time,
A generation of change,
Youths who fought for their rights,
Youths who shall never relent;
Ours has ended,
But the struggle continues,
Someday in history,
Someone will surely remember,
"The Black Tuesday",
The day we were slain!
To read more of my works, visit my blog www.inspiredscoop.com
Copyright © Abas Obot | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Abas Obot Poem
Which system is better?
I do believe in none.
If man can't think better,
We would all pay the price.
Is Capitalism wrong?
Then which one is your right?
Oh communism is cool,
Free trade is a taboo,
Things belong to a few,
And tyrants can rule,
And anyone who's against,
Finds himself at stake;
Oh socialism is good,
What an utopian boo?
Prepare for low economic growth,
Where entrepreneurship is low,
And business motivation is given
Not just a big blow.
May be fascism is the best,
Where dictators aren't naive,
Devils and demons can
easily win their bets,
And everyone without has
nothing but the less.
Leftists or 'rightists',
I don't really care,
Marxist or Nacists,
Don't mean so much to me,
If humans do not change,
System changes are void.
Copyright © Abas Obot | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Abas Obot Poem
We all saw the lousy fearful storm,
Up the sky of our newborn town,
Everyone thought it’s a summer’s dawn,
Where there couldn’t be heavy rain nor storm;
We closed our ears to the weeping sky,
Even when the cloud was right in our eyes,
The suffering sky kept yelling in pain,
But all its calls were left in vain;
The cloud was just above us all,
East and South to West and North,
The West didn’t care because it’s against the east,
No one knew we would soon lose our peace;
The darkness reached its thickest depth,
The northern sky had turned to red,
The Eastern soil mourned its thousand loss,
The onset of the great exodus;
Back to the East everyone cried,
What a journey of thousand miles,
Some on feet both day and night,
Losing every sense of hope and smile;
The South East begged for a glimpse of light,
South South joined in awful cry,
Everyone needed a rising sun,
To bring the hope that had just gone;
Then rose a rising yellow sun,
From the shore of the roaring sea,
Everyone knew it’s too bloody deep,
But it’s light was enough that all could see;
Amidst the celebration of the new sunrise,
The day was still as dark as night,
A mix of light and darkness strife,
The roaring sea reached its highest tide;
A controversial friendship of North and West,
To deem the light of the rising sun,
The whole world watched the brutal game,
The media streamed the awful scene;
Millions of lives both young and old,
Forced to face the shameful woe,
Bloodshed and famine showered like rain,
Millions forced to die in pain;
The stormy cloud had taken its rest,
May be waiting for another lucky day,
No victor no vanquish was all they claimed,
But that for sure wouldn’t raise the dead;
“Unity and peace” was all they hailed,
What an illusory unity of heaven and hell?
Would East and North really become friends?
That’s a story for another day;
Yes, we’ve all claimed to have won the game,
Forgetting the extreme loss and aimless pain,
The million ghosts still haunt to and fro,
Now the fate of our town is still unknown;
The rising yellow sun was forced to set,
But its blood stain still shows its trail,
Its red yellow light may not soon get set,
But it may forever be our nightmare;
Oh you Rising Yellow Sun hear me now,
When shall thy true light come to stay,
That the souls of thy slayed may find their rests,
Perhaps this thy wrath may have an end?
When shall thy children come back home,
From where they were scattered long ago,
When shall the great hope come to live,
So thy glory might fill the sky?
Copyright © Abas Obot | Year Posted 2021
|
Details |
Abas Obot Poem
From a distance,
the incessant chant of monsoon from south west,
sounds like an old witch practicing her craft,
Turning the sleeping dark cloud to a wandering gale,
On its arrival must the sun lose its seeming joy,
As she roars as a warrior in great toil,
And the blue sky covers it face with dark veil,
To hide from the shame of its impending tears,
The sparkling effect of the raging charges,
Brings a fearful sight of great lightening,
A wonder of the mighty mother nature,
Throwing a tantrum to some of its weak creatures,
As the sky's long-held tears begin to flow,
The earth has no option than to open wide her mouth,
As seedlings prepare their minds to grow,
And plants celebrate the cold shower as they sprout,
The temperature drops in honor of the great monsoon,
The cold air spews through the joists of the poor as it blows,
The sheltered rich rejoice in sleeping comfort,
Yet it means a great mare to the homeless vagabonds,
The incessant chant of monsoon from the South West,
The witchcraft of good and evil to the biosphere,
A sign of hope for the long waited winter,
But painful end to the summer's joy
Copyright © Abas Obot | Year Posted 2021
|