This widow wails, thru a thousand years
Who cradled, origin’s, conjecture
Now bemoans, black enigma’s, fears
Who once, was the queen, of equator!
Past’s funeral, smolders, still in you
No present, belongs to, a schizophrenic
Whose future’s, lost in, déjà vu
This continent, prides in, being a relic!
Bullets cost, more than blood, out here
Primitive people, live like, waged beggars
In tribes, and polls, who brandish fear
Are this, wasteland’s, worthy leaders!
They squelch, in UN alms; wriggling worms
Here life, has got, no dimensions
With borrowed faiths, how a, land affirms
Triumphs of, squandered, generations!
Will this, pious portrait, of pity
Redeem the, black ethos’, phobia
Was, is, shall, ever be, a misery
The Soulless Patch Called ‘Africa’!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra