ur nationís atmosphere is visibly pregnant,
not with baby, but with explosive potentials.
The hoopoe, the ominous bird
that sings the song of sorrow
has perched,- a harbinger of gloom and doom
The upper region is dark and dire
and ready to blow up like a cooked chestnut.
But at a particular time in history,
a certain individual comes out
to put a wedge,
to the galloping feet of history,
and halt its runaway dynamic for good.
We see gods adorned with raffia skirts
and helmet made of tortoise shell,
as they dance around in circle and jeer at us.
Of all the subjects taught at school,
my people seem not to learn,
from the book,whose pages are yellowed with age.
Reason seems so short a ladder,
to reach out to the dusty cellars of historical archive.