The Victims Of Distress Poem by Assayouti Jalaludeen Shuaib

Ask the Foreteller
Who knows the fetus of blind
Who can tell, a pregnant snail,
Who can tell, when his toothed-fowl
Urinate and sing,
While his long beard
Dance to the tunes.

Ask the Foreteller
Who hangs shattered rags
Buries giant pots and hails
His voiceless Idols
To hocus-pocus the living dead.

Ask him
Who makes lion roar
Hurr! Or the mew sound
Of his beautiful croaky voice,
Meeww!

Ask the Foreteller;
When do I become the king?
To infiltrate maneuver
Into the land of the miscreants
To salvage the Chibok sisters
With retort and retrenchment,
In the quest for learning they were,
But met the dire of the jungle.

Perhaps the mission fails,
I will tell my unborn children
Of their cold-blooded sisters
Who lost their rights and privileges
To become the victims of distress.