On a clear morning,
Natives wake up all unknown to mourning,
They peacefully match,
To exercise their democratic right,
Their minds innocently blunk,
On what in store the vote has for them,
Calmly was the cast done,
Controversy ensued on the outcome,
Like a dought time bush fire,
Violence spread everywhere,
Blood-shed at every point,
For fears no one had to comment,
They feared any slight detriment.
With clubs and machets,
Merged with bows and arrows,
Out they match all united to devour,
Charged boys slaughtered men
As if for food,
And the results were evident,
The image of the motherland well tainted.
My call,
Oh countrymen stands still,
Forget a club on a fellow man,
Use the matchet for the right purpose
And long will you live without remourse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem