Far Cry From An African Wild Poem by Erhiawarien Justice Akpesiri

Far Cry From An African Wild



My eyes,
O epicure of direst things
My eyes
They have come to their end in sheer tears
And my intestines, all, they are in a tumult
My liver has been poured out to the very earth
Yes,
On account of the crash of the daughter of my people
On account of the fainting away of child and suckling in the squares of the town
Yes
On account of the crash of my people
To their mothers they kept crying on in entreaty:
‘Where is grain, and where is wine? ’
On account of their fainting away
Like someone slain in the squares of the city
Their souls being poured out, their souls

Of what shall I make you a witness,
To what shall I liken you,
O daughters of dying mothers?
What shall I make with you an equal,
That I to you may comfort bring?
For your breakdown is as great as the teeming sea
Like the vastness of the desert plain.
All those passing along,
Upon your sight they have clapped their hand
How they whistle, wagging their heads
Is not this the lass of whom they used to say:
‘It is a perfection of prettiness,
An exultation for all the land? ’
Who then to her can bring a cure, O Direty
See to her,
Do look to the one to whom you’ve gravely dealt
Should the women keep eating their own cubs,
Their children born and fully formed?
Should the priest be slain in the sanctuary?
A pool of blood
A boy and an old man have been lain down on the floor of the streets
Our virgins and young men have fallen by the very sword of time
Why should there be no compassion shown?
Why was there no pity let?
We have been given a sufficiency of bitter things
We have been saturated with wormwood
And with gravel our teeth have been made to break
Should there be no compassion shown?
My eyes have been poured out and shall keep still no more
With streams of water my eyes keep running, yes
On account of the breakdown of my people
Yes,
The fainting away of mere suckling
O, how the gold that shines become dim,
The good gold
And how the holy stones are poured out at the heads of all the streets
And the precious sons,
Those weighed against refined gold and gems
O how they have been reckoned as jars of earthenware
The tongue of the suckling has cleaved to its palate because of thirst
Children themselves have asked for bread
There prove to be no one dealing out to them
Even jackals themselves have given their udder
They have suckled their own cubs to live
Yet the daughters of my people have become cruel
Like ostriches in the wilderness
How better, those slain with the sword have proved to be
Than those slain by want, o famine
They pine away, pierced through
For a lack of the produce of the field
And at the risk of our souls we bring in bread
Because of the sword in the wilderness
Our skin has gone hot, like the smelting fury of a furnace
And there, the pangs of hunger and of fright

Bring us back, Great One, to thyself
Bring us back and so shall we readily come
Bring for us a new as of long ago
Bring for us refreshening dew as of dawn
That we may forever never totter.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Erhiawarien Justice Akpesiri

Erhiawarien Justice Akpesiri

Warri, Delta State, Nigeria
Close
Error Success