A Wasted Generation Poem by Adookorn Auaduma

in the murmur of every sane man,
in the laughter of every born child;
in the smile of every insane soul
are the still echoes of lost hope

we laugh to lament our broken hope,
smile to flex the colour of our teeth
and feign an attitude of living in haven
where the smile of our faces don't show

how the leaders oppress the poor
and, the people sitting on the moon
remove the ladder and the door--
to not strife to reach the moon

from our cauterise cage of adoption,
with the wasted treasure of lethargy -
our forgotten illusionary vision crushed
by the woeful teeth of scepter

and graze us on dungeon piles
as lesser beast of burden wthout a choice
yet, we own the manure they grow by,
the hue and emblem in the banner

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in the innocent cry of every infant,
in the crawling voice of every cripple;
in every sorrow; in every lament
are the still echoes of lost hope --

how our tongues are tired up,
and our hands and head held low
by the people sitting on the moon
though we struggle from below,

we struggle against desire --
the jackboot of political oath;
in the obligatory constrain we aspire,
but our plight do not bother them,

and our plight gives them joy,
our creative talent silenced till death;
our inventive talent lie wailing in jail
coz our plight do not bother them.