I
First, we were tagged ‘the minority’ by men who
gave names without ceremonies.
We buried our grief in shallow graves,
waiting for time to exhume carcasses of speeches.
Time did its bit. Words became actions. Vows were broken.
II
Rhythms of drumbeats altered when here, crude
Found a home.
Pipes raced from all cardinal points.
Sapping of strengths and fortunes silenced our songs.
III
Our Water's:
Sacrosanct bodies which hosted hopes spoilt
amidst violations.
Fishes floated and denied our waters.
We questioned black liquids on the waters’ surface.
We got no response.
IV
Our Lands:
Terrains of noble findings, forced to sudden squalor.
Bereft of harvest, we searched for answers
in the rising smokes from the neighborhood.
Since our earth started birthing black liquids,
Wafting of thick smokes muted our serenades.
V
When darkness sprouts at mid-day,
What name do we call it?
When cantilenas filter through wafting smokes
And emerge as dirges, to whom do we sing them?
VI
Today, a new song lives in our tongues.
Not for us only. Posterity shall sing with us:
This is the land of our birth
Nothing more shall spoil our earth!
No strange liquids shall kiss our waters
Let dust and doom visit all oil plotters!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem