Paroles

This is not a world war
This is just a word's war
A war without knives or guns
But explosives made of puns

Though, this may seem funny
That's a blasting note on symphony
That mixes strings of violence,
Harmony, and swollen art of condolence

I'm dead, black, mistaken for an ape
Yet, I'm not given a stick of banana
Or taken to a show of swinging step,
But only torn to pieces for their eyes to dinner

I scream! But who screams epp?
My pain becomes a melody into their ears
Drips of blood, arrows into my bicep
Body studded in the medals of scars and fears

My screams resonate into the poems in the voices
Of Luther Kings, of Diops and many X'es
Of symphony that doesn't seem funny
Of freedom, of Dike Chukwumerije's journey

Of oneness, of lines, of calabash and cattles
Of The Dining Table with no metaphors to battles
Of the honours brought home by the R, S & S trio
Of the rastas, cure to disasters from embryo.

Who poetry epp? It's not you, it's not me,
It's every darkness that needs lights to see.