I Hope Your Dream Won’t Die In The Moon Poem by Rex-mayor Ubini

A crinkly brow, a dark hollow jaw,
falling bristols, and shallow eyes.
A tongue of earth for mushrooms.
Mushrooms in a malodorous mouth;
a hiding place for my brown teeth.
My brown teeth coated with soured pap.
My shoes rent rooms for rats.
The path I trek, knows the cracks on my heels,
deep and dark like a mouse hole in a hill.
Agony has grown old with me.
Poverty proclaim I dignify her name.
And through me, she climbs the ladder of fame.
Hunger knows the names of my sons,
and my daughters feed on the gold of their nakedness;
which throw them into the dungeon of darkness.
This misery calls tears that brim many a can.
My hope is the eyes of an old barren woman,
whose days have crossed over the lintel of menopause,
they only pierce through the horizon,
passing the galaxy without notice,
to the temple of the brightest sun.

I’ve met many suitors,
I’ve married many men.
Many you came, many you’ve gone,
tasted my milk and coming for more.
Many you came only want to squeeze
and drink from the oranges of my chest;
the milk that sold millions into a hamster pocket.
Why do you act like you really care.
Yet you pretend you can’t hear
the moan of hunger that fills my children’s throat.
You promised a house of gold
before my age counts a hundred fold.
But I still live in the hut of makuti.
Suffering and smiling like Fela Kuti.
The cry that rose and fainted in the east,
is gradually rising again, into the day of fatal feast.
Every new husband plods into my yard
with new dog barking out a threat to my life.
Here am I, moping and waiting.
When come the promised wind of change,
to come blow away my pains?
I’m waiting… you said, ‘soon’.
I hope your dream won’t die in the moon.