More bullets, in their guns, than bread, in our homes
They fight, for a faith, we live in, whose fear
More than, malady of, all s(in)dromes
Is the cross, of hurt ethos, our souls bear!

How long, will we blame, colonists, for this state
We’ve failed, to decide, our destiny
Our brotherhood, lost in, tribal hate
Africa, is the, Maker of, its ignominy!

Whites, made us slaves, what, did we make
Mongrels, starving, to a, certain death!
From, lingering langour, we didn’t, wake
Democracy, ain’t, a mere, shibboleth!

Who survive wombs, in cradles, they die
Mothers make, their tombs of, tears and sand
Lost dream, of hope, sings, the last lullaby
In, Another Funeral, In My Land!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra