Shackles Poem by Feyisayo Anjorin

Our land turns harder under our soles,
dust and smoke replaced the colourful,
the ageing scepter of the dark soul
would end in history as the comical.

our hand shrinks as they push,
whips stung the bold like scorpions,
the scrolls says the sons of Cush
will be carved anew as lovely sculptures.

our head fills with songs of the future,
the dances draws curious glances.
A child starts with weak features,
and charts his course at time passes.