Songs of Anisha
Innocence died on the cross
Welcome to the real world.
The business end of the needle
Sews and pricks the seamstress
When you point one finger
Three points back to you
“You think hell was the abode
Where hellions dine with the devil.
No, it is home of the helpless, suppressed
And oppressed
Whose voices have been muted,
By politics and the bullet”
“The Song In My Soul,”
by Tope Adeboboye
A song brews in my soul
Choking me with its surging tide
Seeking air with a passion plea
Flinging its fetters with sanguinary fervour
Whirling within like a feverish gale
But the liberty of its bestirring tune
I dare not decree…
For our land is lost on its lane
Our cattle savour grime for grass
The tutors, charcoal and chaff
Man’s mouth can no longer sing
Hands have ceased to encore hymns
Legs shrink from tinkling rhymes
Where lethal lead stalks the sky
So I keep on searching and seeking
But am I lost in this lawn?
For I’m yet to find the place
A snuggery – so mellow and safe
For this simmering song
Brewing bile in my brittle soul
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