The Rhythm of the World
This morning in Aleppo
Was bloodshed
Gunshots, RPGs,
Bomb blast
Like the achaba suicide bomber
Of Kaduna
A little boy I Syria is running
To escape the shrapnel of
The shooter’s shells and mortars
A disillusioned almajiri is planting
Local explosives in a church
Somewhere in Borno.
My bedroom receives
Fresh percolation of sun rays
Early morning sun rays
It reminds me
How we used to sing do re mi
A female deer
A drop of golden sun
A name I call myself.
But where have they all gone?
The songs
Where have they gone?
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