Oh great sojourners, Pilgrims of the white City. Bound hands and feet, with metallic chains of ore. Your lips sealed , yet your hands never ceased as the hands of time.
You sighed and cried
Groaned and moaned
Sobbed in anguish
At the whips engraven on your flesh
Yet you trudged still,
On that pin-full path.
And yet after a woeful day,
While they slept on cozy beds,
All you had was a bed of
thorns, with snakes and scorpions
to keep you company.
Day and night,
Your palms were ever burnt
Hands never ceasing
On their plantation farms.
While the sun burnt your feet
and the fiery tornadoes-rain’s spouse,
Smote your spine
You where there,
Working for the white skinned fellows,
Captured, owned and brandised like Chinese ceramics.
Yet,your kinsmen lied in a pool
of their emaciated -rottening flesh,
Lay at the road-side, as supper for
the famished vultures of the air.
By John Olonade
