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George Egba


Grave Yard Mines


Our grave yard full of shells
Gold diggers miners all astray
With mines occupied with pot holes
That riders throw our rays away
Then bring the oldest news
Rumors and dept rendered
Old idle noise
Of another sermon of ill power
Where cops stood with pot bellies
Pot bellies upon road of pot holes
Drowning leaders profess
They are drunk while on tour
Become tourist and impoverish us
Impoverish the mines wasting in legacies
Which they impose and forge
All these could be mundane policies
Who can rise to judge
From the deep pools of our dying mines
When gold diggers yield up the ghost
Trust banish silence
Foreigners leading claim our trust
Tell me how to survive in dead mines
Where we eat the shell and sell the flesh
From us to aliens
The wounds in the mines forsaken
Forgotten and abandon
Beside our grave yard are weeping flowers
Mourning for justice mercies and pardon
Which gold diggers abuse and disallow

Submitted: Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, February 12, 2014
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Black politce

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