She seems uglier than a troll,
with a skin, brutally stripped like a poet's scroll.
She's adorned with the raiment of withered roses,
and she seems so lean than the cane of Moses.
Her soul is as quiet as the desert of horror.
Her name is Facari- with a spelling error.
She's a barren virgin with crippled children,
and her womb, too wrinkle to embrace new semen.
Her tears are like ashes, her face like a shadow.
She's thorny eye-lashes, piercing her to the marrow.
An ash-spring is the Oasis of her desert,
weeping, wailing and requiem are choristers of her concert.
She feeds on the feces of her crippled babies,
and drinks the menses of cold-worn ladies.
Yet her fart smells sweetly like the petals of hibiscus;
A fatal irony, deserving a thorough discuss.
Her name is a Facari- with a spelling error,
and corruption and chaos is her solemn terror.
DAVID O. OLUSANYA
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem