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?
