By Uzor Maxim Uzoatu
Because of Biafra
(To Frederick Forsyth)
We fought the world,
A world that disinherits
Because of the war on Aburi
We stand sentenced
To pound murky nooks
And hoary chambers
From the gorge of ancestry
In the brood of blood
To the graveyard of the deities,
Shovelling away grains
Gathered with rakes,
Draining source and course
Like spring in retreat,
Upon the drift of dons and dunces
In the solicitous gush
Toward the seraphs of sunset,
Bodying serpentine margins
Of the gulf within
The champion desert
As wasteland works homeland
Baked like scorched earth
By the whiteness of flight
And the blackness of blight.
(c) Uzor Maxim Uzoatu – Published in the 2006 collection God Of Poetry pg41
