Travail On String Poem by Chukwuebuka Onah

On decades they sat on mourn.
Divergent rays scorning their spines.
Skulls became bald, hairs in grey.
Wrinkles caressing their starved bones,
swallowed up by asthenic ages.
Services rendered scorned.
Fatherland piercing their sweats.
Sweats of offerings of mourn,
Mourn for candles as light,
lights in mushrooms as homes.
Homes of breed of mosquitoes,
mosquitoes singing choruses,
choruses of dirge at noon.
Their faces dangling and tossed.
Promises of air on their lips.
And putting on three eyed sword.
With cozen fingers on their sweats of pain.
Merrying, eating, drinking.
Think them second class?
Think them paths to thread?
Think not,
first class above.
And let winds of hopes hang them.
Hanging viruses of upper ville,
and the parasites of the West,
in sands left in despair.