World In The Brink

World In The Brink short poem

Photo by Infrogmation

It was just News flash, nothing to be scared about.
They were just News flash from a distant land;
from far away land where the inhabitants were,
well, that is if they were assumed as people;
were thought to feel no pain or to be pitied.

They sounded like distant talking drums
talking to the ancestors of some fallen lands
They were like the eerie sound of the igila
or the ikirigo, mourning a departed soul
Dim, dim, dim, it seemed to sound from the distant
gradually brought closer home by the wind.

So were the tales, heard these days from faraway land
News flash of wars and deaths in distant lands
so far from any human dwelling, it seemed
But the sounds are eerily getting closer.
Live news showing the bombings and shootings,
first in a distant land, brought home on the airwaves.

Homes becoming desolate and cities in ruins
And like wildfire in the Harmattan season,
blown across the Savannah, images were shown.
Battered faces and malnutrition beings that
were first seen in the airwaves are now seen
in every border and national frontiers.

It is no more news heard on News flash
It is the News seen on eye witness account
It is not a tale from distant lands,
it is eye witness account witnessed by all
Our world is heading into a precipice of
human crises on account of fading life value.

Yet the world rulers, barricaded in the
opulence of luxurious greed spins away
As men in chessboard, the lives of youthful
generation to keep a stranglehold on power;
lost to the reality of the emerging catastrophe
While the rest of the world watches on, petrified.

And so violence has crept into every home.
There is desolation in every city and hamlet,
while the world, swaying in a stupor into
another precipice of humanitarian cauldron;
Should we pretend all is well with us?
Should we look the other way, saying, it’s their case?

Let us raise up our pen and weep for mankind
The dripping ink for tears let loose on paper
As tears flowing down the cheek of mothers
weeping for their husbands and children lost
and killed, of which cause, they knew not;
and children orphaned made, for dead parents.

When will it end; how will it end?
Life has lost the essence of living.
Who will roll us back from the brink?
Who will stretch their hands over the divide
to embrace and to say it’s over
With an olive branch, doth peace prevails.

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