A Lament For My Brothers Poem by Timothy Faboade

(For the victims of NIS recruitment exercise)

They struggle, grumble, rumble, mumble,
Pacing around like a cathedral bell,
The weaklings poorly on stones stumble,
The cause, though known, I can never tell.
The scuffle is for their daily bread,
Questing for what is totally out
Of their real length and breadth,
When their weak strength goes out,
The beleaguered, famished ones die
Just because of their quest for fortune
They lay on the altar their lives
Having danced to paucity's tune,
They fall like withered lifeless leaves.
The few cabals show their grins
Pretending to console the bereaved
And happy that their wealth is green.