(Your Flowers Are Thorns too)
O! Nigeria
Your flowers are thorns,
And thorns are your attire,
When light comes,
They laugh and smell.
In the scorching noon,
You wear the colour of sanes;
And on the slate of the desert
You inscribe your ‘thirst’
You’re an off-shoot of thirst
Upon your head is a shawl Of smouldering sunlight,
Patience bounds your body,
As if the dry skin of silence
Is stretched on your termite-eaten skeleton.
O! Nigeria
Your shade has been
Scorched since your birth,
The womb of which
Gives birth to new mirages,
Even in the rainy season,
On seeing which,
Brackish dreams spill from eyes.
O! Nigeria
The fruits you gave down
Changed the promises they made
They forgot the time you and
Them were promosing to
Build your inheritors.
Categories:
sanes, africa,
Form: Prose