My First Poem: Blood Of Our Kinsmen

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BLOOD OF OUR KINSMEN. stanza 1 We wandered on the boulevards the railway track boulevards on the mid path of this boulevards is our nation No greenery grows on the sides of this boulevards but sprouting from our actions and inactions are the trees of misery on either side, bearing fruits of misery as we wander on the deserted path we had no alternative but to eat from this fruits of misery nay! it neither satisfies nor hunger it quenches but the abdomens it clutches we continue to wander, emaciated shrunk and in an endless quest for a safe haven below the boulevards, are catacombs, in abandoned farmlands where our unmourned kinsmen are laid, they went out on lucky days that put an end to their earthly witness of pain in the sinking ship of their fatherland, only to till and sow the blood wet land manured by sweats, to feed their families and neighbors, only to be given a royal welcome to the exotic catacombs below, on which we walk and dine and rejoice in agony. stanza 2 We could hear the tune, the drum tune tune of the ol' days gone, but alas! it wasn't the tune, inviting our kinsmen as days gone, to a meeting to speak, and sing and laugh and rejoice, at the palace, as days gone, nay! it was a tune from the barrels unforgiving, of guns, mowing down our kinsmen, while our dubious sit tight elites custodians of our chambers exotic dance to the same tune that mown our kinsmen the air mourns in sorrow, the tides stood still as we lay our fallen, to their only safe haven their citadel below, that gives them not the bliss of the world, but at least saves them from whipping of the whippers whip while they lasted in their fatherland, the birds rejoice, feasting on putrid remains of our own kinsmen. In this land we were born, until called upon by our dubious sit tight elites, to a candelabra of portions, and gave us gifts fit for the farms, to till the land, but use it to mown our own and the nose rings placed on us, and put us to duel, while they dance and cheer and applaud, to the sound of our sabre and the scream of our kinsmen pierced by the sabre, while we scream in fear of being pierced by our own sabre. ~Said Abubakar Zhunnurayn.

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