The World In Tatters Poem by Emmanuel Kwabena Woyome

we say democracy

he's power drunk and so shows no mercy

burn the banner of idiosyncrasy

and eschew autocracy

yet we lift a finger in support of imperialism and supremacy

my thoughts are hard pressed-

as in ma own land, I'm fast depressed

many remain enslaved

food abounds yet mothers and babies are starved

we employ the trickery of destruction

so peace would listen

soon our wisdom fails us

and the chanting of war songs, we hasten

but on a blank page,

I wish this whole picture was re-painted



Darfur, Rwanda, Ivory coast….elsewhere-tsunami

and many fled to Miami

Lybia, Gadafi, Mugabe, Zimbabwe

we all flip our hands in despair

cause the hearts of many, are torn beyond repair







(the world is in taters

and our pretty hair,

is shaved by unscrupulous barbers

they call themselves, freedom fighters

in their bid to make things better,

they end up dispatching treachery

printed on flyers)



on the hype of this game of co-habilitation,

let selflessness preside

when in our hearts, we allow empathy to reside

lets not first destroy

only to rebuild through pain-like the city of troy

illicitly we cut down trees and chase the wild into extinction

whereas amongst ourselves, myriad souls need immediate eviction

our way of life depicts madness

constantly, in the middle of our wisdom, sits a dent of foolishness

the truth is coated with lies

But soon men would come to realize

that over their heads, a typhoon

of profound danger loom

At a hovel of haphazard gatherings,

the selfishness of men are adjourned

to meeting days unknown



(the world is in taters

our pretty hair,

is shaved by unscrupulous barbers

they call themselves, freedom fighters

in their bid to make things better,

they end up dispatching treachery

printed on flyers)





like sleepless clock hands, throughout the night,

Men gather for themselves possessions, in the absence of fright

Eat and drink of the cup of prosperity

To the harsh neglect

Of the pleading gaze of posterity





They ride on the backs of policies

Hide under the umbrella of economic indexes

And with the hand of fiscal projections,

They pat each other on the back like babies

from one time to another

dreams are updated

as our hopes remain outdated

"peace is crippled

fear and insecurity are coupled

the future is negated

and our weariness is doubled

in the filth of expectancy, we grope

as with a wrinkled faith,

for better days we all hope"



(the world is in taters

and our pretty hair,

is shaved by unscrupulous barbers)