Nobody killed her
She died in their harms
Rather than her children’s arms
She cried
But none yielded or tried
Not even her own, she home
Who, right in her womb, long for the spring in the other tomb
She got knocked off and became toothless like a lamb,
Trampled upon by a ram,
Who found her broken rafter a pasture
For others like him to vulture.

They plundered her breast away
Sucked up her milk
And left her children’s hope flaccid.
The struggle to preserve
Turns the struggle to serve;
Not their motherland
But their murderers’ land
Owners then become Lazarus
Feeding from their own heritage crumbs
Right from the table of their parasites
Who fox their ways into the land
And later become the knight wolves

Who then is to blame but they
They that left their chameleon faeces
On the helm of her public garment
And still claim her children are dirty politically?