Songs of Anisha
“Season,”
by Barthosa Nkurumeh
FOR WHEN the eye
Of the earth
Throws down
Its spears
And the waters of the heaven
With its tears. We
Lift our hoes to the hills
And we
Lift our baskets from the hills
For our land
Is rich.
“Labyrinth of Disgust…”
by Efeduma Eseoghene
Mortals,
Leaders.
Virtues and expectation thrust in battered banality,
As perils haunt the inadequacies of marabouts and prophets.
Though we snare to soothe our whims,
the miserable feeling persist,
the opium of blithe cushioned by quiet directives exist.
Their vulpine attitude courageously feigned
With a salubrious and venal countenance,
Still rattle as impact on our fragile penance.
O genius on evil
benevolent benefactors,
midget in mind and thoughts,
your evanescent triumph,
Lecod and moribund it seems,
Will one day destroy you?
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