Epistles Of Sorrows Poem by OGECHI VERONICA

Tell Chinua, the prophet
Our envisaged posterity lies in crumble rumble
Tell Okigbo, the great poet
Our land lies in ruined ruins
Tell Ojukwu
Peace wrestles pitifully
This land weeps of bloodbath
Sulking on the sorrows of the morrow

Did they not sound the bell of solidarity
Round this market place
With a thin thread over our eyes
We chanted the chorus in gay voices
I remember
Yes, I remember
The tales of yesteryears

Tell Azikiwe
This badge of concord is a broken sore
Wrought upon by blisters, severed by knives
Tell Mandela
Victory won is over worn
Freedom, the doom of the free

Tell Luther, the king
This bargained deception is the decay of time
Behold, they dance to the strings of voilin
Mowing down the truth
Saved to soil fresh streams
With a garment of tricking form'H'

Behold as law's neck is bent
And adorned with beautiful ornaments
Enticing to the admiration of money mongers
Defencelessly laws drop its sword
The Wanton advocate grins mischievously
Smiling to the voracious desires of the stomach.