At the dawn of one grey morning
We were called
from our houses
To free our
weeping land from the dark hand of
A black
cloud raining acid on the backs of our crop
Our sons and
daughters
We plucked from
sickles and books
To feed Our Revolution-
Her belly
bellicose and bellowing
Promising freedom,
better times:
A life befitting
Children of God
Battered by
bullets and bombshells;
Limbs shattered,
flesh ripped apart,
Our hearts trembled
with the terrors of war,
But Strong We
Stood
For we had Our
Revolution-
Our blood
would not be stilled.
Soon came
the hour of reckoning
When ululation
and jubilation rung-
Our Revolution
marched into the city,
And our boots,
Weary from the
burying of friends,
Returned to
empty homes
To live like
Children of God
But the price
of freedom is dear;
For the
blood of our sons,
The wrenching
wails of our daughters,
The
revolution returned in measure;
Cold beer, neon
lights, radio, and tv,
But no drugs
for our children, and
Junk yards and
tree-shades for schools
Evening came
The
revolution fattened…
The songs we
sang
Now cobwebs
in distant memories
Hollowed out
into ghastly ghosts
Our hopes became
ulcers writhing in our bellies
Our serviled
palms mastered the art of beggary
And the black
cloud with acid rains returned
Our
revolution was stolen from us
No comments:
Post a Comment