A Song For The Poor- During Wars. Poem by Milova Matthias

Before the suburbia sages of rumbled griots.

Before the stampede lights of darkness.

Awaken through stupefy ties of riots.

Lost in redolent hemp's of shrewdness.


Boneless invertebrates of epileptic community.

A sheath without sword or empty blown stomach.

Shameless 'cognorates' and intertwined nonentity.

Brushing past from dawn to dusk in hooded stench.


Gaunty marrows like birds suffering from new-castle.

Some off skirt dames and take the lads for wars.

The ancient market turned to rags, where all heads 'huzzle'.

Be it this or that, here or there, it's no place for wars.


So was poverty and days of wars like Biafran.

Our green days turned brown, yet after, it's in fire from fry pan.