Saturday, December 24, 2016
Wings to fly so high
Wings to fly more than the birds of the air
Wings to fly than aeroplane
Wings to be creative and not to create thieves
My words come with punchlines
To punch your mind
So you can focus on those in the slum
That need your help
Our children are suffering
They cry everyday even night
They couldn't sleep after telling them tales by moonlight
We light up the candle in the night
Yet they cry because they're hungry.
We are tired of waiting For the melancholic news
Our tears and blood have failed to break
Our truncated imaginations failed to trace their agonies that
split as dust.
But turns our soft swollen eyes to ocean of sorrow.
Our home a graveyard to mourn our daughters.
As scattering of stars all over nation watch night race.
Our closed-open eyes habourd the sorrowful
stories of sambisa gods.
Let placards embelish streets and shrines to
Let the echeos of our voice not be withhold by hiccup.
Let our drop-down tears don't fall on deaf ears,
So they wont say they
didn't hear all because of fear.
I, Sunsampaul am optimistic
That I'll fight those who steal sleep out of our eyes.
And even if our dreaming sleepless night
Refuse to achieve its aim
I will sail through the moon of our ancestors to appease
The gods of the land.
The slum is where you find dirty lads,
Eating dirty food with dirty hands
Living in dirty places
Playing with dirty things and dying of dirtiness.
The Slum is where you see
Babies breastfeeding babies
And protegees with no mentors.
So let's join hands to save the slum
Night turns into black blood of evil
Humans running in mistiness.
Dying on the damp earth lie a laddie,
who for comfort could
not care less.
Warm, caressing weather freezes quickly
On a lonely path and lifeless way…
The gloomy stars of present year,
Fade from the eye that will forever sleep.
He will yet, let out a whisper,
and groan faintly.
The defender of the resolution,
They will bury in grassy hill,
So that comrades of our time
Can no longer count on him for help…
So that in the tales of apple blossom, it’s young.
By land light our girls write letters to their
to marry them in time.
They are tired of the life in their parents house
The urge to be a mother is in most of them
Which makes them get deflowered.
Thinking of their own life,
Learning no trace from their predecessors,
The birds no make mockery of their
Just as the chameleon refuse to show its true