By Simon Njoku
There lies the giant writhing in agony,
Deeply inflicted with wounds by men beloved,
who dented the crest of her armour
and blighted the zenith of her bliss.
O nation, glorious in time past, sauntering for space, air to inhale, fresh breath to withered hands and bleeding hearts,
Pierced by marauders’ spears and terrorists bullets; with herdsmen rampaging farmlands far and near, and by their
heinous acts carry old and young captive; all leaving behind wailing eyes and trails of blood.
O land of our fathers, whither comes healing for thy pains, after three scores and two years, ravaged and plundered by kinsmen seated in thrones of grace.
But mine eyes shall soon behold thy rising from the ashes of thy glory past, the resurgence of thy fame and the blossom of thy flowers, marked by the increase of thy flock. This l know, with PO in the saddle.
Simon Njoku, the Obidient.
