FAITHFUL _ Another Massive Grave

Dear son,

If you are far, from

Please don't come home,

For death is now a regular visitor,

Constantly knocking on our doors.

Death is only a machete swing away,

Only a rifle click away,

A dagger's slit away,

A bomb throw away,

Please eat your food like a supper,

Tonight could be your last,

The very bite you chew could be the last,

Your teeth's could never grind before.... (Sobs)

.....

.....

....

A bomb could blast,

A fire could raise,

A bullet could tear...

A smoking hut,

Blood soaked sands,

Corpse littered streets,

A weeping little child behind the smoking debris,

He is the last of a family of seven,

Somewhere in plateau, death knows us by name.

Memorize my face,

Because the last you'll see won't be mine,

But a sun burnt face,

A blood stained blade,

An angry face with long tribal marks,

Canals where pure evil runs.

Our home is now a market square,

Our lives are the common commodity,

Bartered for slaughtered cows,

Exchanged for animals which would make the next meal.

Our blood just bought the next deal.

Our towns are now jewelry stores,

With blade adorning our necks,

Our streets are adult scenes,

With bullets kissing more than lovers lips.

Here with our bones we carved on our soil,

Baba, if you are so blind to see,

You can at least read this in braille,

A mass grave is not what the mass crave.

©d faithful 

June 2018