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My pen still speaks of their eyes;
That eyes that shoot like an arrow
Killing many whose voice are weak.
They plunge our pride under the rain,
Beat up the little glory we are made to see;
Then, leave us helpless in the gloomy street.



My pen still speaks of my people
Who are tortured and violated,
Nothing is remain of them, nothing!
All weeping in the same corner with
The same strips on their back wailing.



We shall not die, we proclaim,
But we see death face to face with us.
All eyes on the decks means not the work is going,
The beaming of the beckoning morning is darkness.
We are shot out of the world and nothing,
Nothing is done to retrieve our spirit from doom.


My pen still speak of those blood at Wuse
My pen still speaks of those skulls at Borno,
My pen still speak of tribalism and rape.
My pen still speak of Discrimination and hatred.
Yes It still speak!
The rape
The abuse
Child trafficking
Homosexualism
That ravage our honourable country to doom.




My pen still laugh like yesterday
In the eve of Christmas when we all
Gathered between mother's legs to sing.
But all had gone and now we see pains ripping us apart that is why my pen is bereaved.




(C) John Chizoba Vincent

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