The Battle At Atems (War Without End) Poem by Livinus weeping poet Okechukwu

For five seasons we were out here in the cold winter,
For five seasons we fought,
For five seasons we bleed,
It was a war as dreadful as it can be,
It was a war different from all I have been to,
It was a war different from all I have seen as a warrior in this world,
Fighting at the gate of Atems was indeed a battle of honour.

For five years, I and my warriors fought at the gate of Atems,
For five years the Atems defended their land,
I stood side by side in the battle field with the mighty "Zikoh"
Zikoh……. A god among men,
He was invincible in the battle field,
The blade and spears of the Atems could not penetrate him.

I watched the Atems fall,
I watched my men die,
Fathers lost sons,
Wives lost husbands,
We forgot about home,
We forgot about our people,
We fought for honour,
We fought for dignity.

I saw the new moon rise and fall,
I witnessed seasons upon seasons come and go,
But I saw nothing of my beautiful wife,
I saw nothing of my son,
While striking the blade of my sword against the enemies,
While taking life out of sons and fathers of Atems,
While screaming and roaring like a lion in the battle field,
I never forgot about home,
I never forgot the oceans of grasses from horizon to horizon,
I never forgot my beautiful land,
I never forgot the land that gave me birth and blessings.
I am still in the battle field,
I am still fighting at the gate of Atems,
The gate is yet to fall,
The battle still rages on and on,
But there are few of us left now,
We look hungry and weary,
We have very little life left in us,
Yet we will not capitulate,
For us, there is no retreat,
For us there is no surrender,
We fight to death.

I have lost most brothers here,
I have lost warriors and friends,
Even the mighty "Zikoh" have fallen,
There are few of us left to die,
There are few left to be devour by the vultures.

I do not know when I will die,
I do not know when I will fall,
But falling in the battle field is an inestimable honour,
I will die in battle of that I am certain,
But when I die,
Do not burry me in our sad little cemetery,
Burn me and cast my ashes to the strong east wind.



My name is the weeping poet,
I am a metabele,
I was born a warrior,
My blood belongs to the red soil.