The Lion of Burkina

In the dust and drums of a battered land, Rose a flame from the heart of golden sand. Ibrahim Traoré, son of the soil, With hands unbought and feet unsoiled. Not born of palace nor Western mold, But of Sankara’s fire — fierce and bold. He took no silver from the serpent’s tongue, He walked where cowards once had clung. At thirty-five, while others slept, He rose where sacred dreams are kept. The youngest lion, fierce with grace, He wiped the tears from a stolen place. Burkina Faso, your spirit revived, Through him, the soul of Africa thrived. No longer chained to puppet strings, He clipped the vulture's greedy wings. The Western world with fearful eyes, Watched truth arise where silence lies. They cannot bear a man so free, A leader not bowed to their decree. He speaks to youth with sacred fire, Of lands reborn, of rising higher. He builds not walls, but sovereign dreams, Beyond the IMF’s wicked schemes. He walks with Sankara’s ancient might, A general cloaked in justice’s light. Not just for Burkina, but all the land, He lifts the torch with steady hand. You may try to smear his name, But truth outlives the tongue of shame. The hour is near, the drums are loud, The lion roars — unchained, unbowed.