The Talking Gun Poem by Folayemi Akande

We shall not drop our guards to petty threats,
Not under this moon sundial
that slumbers our fate.
When the moonlight ripples
settles at our embankments.

Our thirst for liberty is at war,
Lingering on the cry for freedom,
Together shall we break
From these furnace of tyranny.

Behold, the indignant fragment
Of our broken tears,
Would amount by the tunnel of victory.

Let the embers cry all out
our mountain debts,
to the eulogy of the whirling hearts,

And on the chest of the Irokos,
May unity be scribbled as we campaign through eternity
Through the pestilence of immortality

The guns shall cry out loud,
Bethrothed the reign of humanity
And continually shall splinter the gore clothed sky,
Like a tattered tumbling cloud.

And the mocking bird shall scamper no more,
Cuz' the bow is at flight,
To end the vaunting dreams of hopeful battalions.

Credulous bloods shall again congregate,
At the conference somewhere in the depth of the seas.

I beseech you comrades,
that we strive through this thorny end,
with every ounce in our roaring veins.
For by this means,
our blurry future is adumbrated and preserved in the realms of perpetuality.

We shall sing the camp odes with our grouchy feet,
And the drum stick shall lither the air with apocalyptic fathom,
Matching on logs and stocks of prickling branches,
Not to be deafened to the ominous groan of our bear soul.