By Richie Maccs

Tell me when it gets dark
I want to go outside and play
With crickets in the owlish night;
Skin foxes under the weeping moon.
Raptors are home to roost, aflutter,
Amidst hawks biting grains
Beneath the empty granary.
Harvest songs sit silently in old books,
The fields have been swept clean
By fiendish wind – afore the storm.

Burn all your history books
The world’s history is written on rocks,
And black tears on mangrove stalks,
Shades of laughter dot the billowing sky.
Burry all your history books in anthills
For they tell lies; words that hide sins,
From your own selves, open your eyes!
For dark skies envelop my conscience
And the fleeting shadow of promise
Has erased the pretense of horizons.

Carry your rifles to the Square
Today the crestfallen crown
Hangs in abeyance – deserted,
The King’s head floats in the wavy
Bloodbath of revolution.
The second-hand father of the nation
Sits sedate on a pool of blood
With war worn children yawning –
SMGs fraying their bony shoulders,
We lost it to the fury of the moment.

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