William Warigon (Nigeria)

William Warigon (Nigeria)
William Warigon is a Nigerian. He is a prolific writer, an internationally acclaimed poet, an indefatigable lawyer and a passionate human rights activist. His books, “Timeless Rhapsody,” “The Eclectic Poet” and “Niger Delta: Cusp Of The Star-Crossed Lovers” enjoyed rave reviews. He has featured in many international anthologies and collaborative works including the recent bestselling book “The Autumn Orange Of The Afterthought ” by Ian Wilcox. He lives in Abuja and his hobbies include reading, writing,traveling, activism and gardening.
Cut a slice of long lasting peace.
Serve it hot, it’s sumptuous.
It is an aim on a plate to please
Warring factors of the years.
Years wearing bloody scars
Of yesterday’s squabbles that have no meanings.
Blackness of the haughty stars
Slaughtering ambitions and making many killings.
When we find the arms of peace,
We throw away arms by every piece,
Then hold peace’s hand in a vicelike grip
And discard the wars and sorrow’s whip.
No more tears to tear us apart,
But heal the scar and the wart.
Though the land bears wounds to remind,
Processing slow and painfully;
Hope we sow and reap rich so very fine,
The ugly will sprout beautifully.
Look at peace like a lady in silken drapes
Coming with huge bosoms to entice.
Look at peace like free gold by open nests.
Embrace peace with strength of gneiss.
The trumpet of is peace blarring
This day for the optimists daring.
Set aside those crowns atop the ego.
All bedfellows’ heart are now aglow.
It has happened before
What will waltze around,
Still waltzes back around
It’s a prelude to the war.
The wise, who was there before
Doesn’t hang about like a whore.
He goes back home to prepare
For the impending implosion.
Heavy hangs on this gloomy air.
What’ll come’d be destruction-
The showers of hate and plunder.
Bellies filled with filthy rodents
Will see sword tearing from under
The undressed eyes of residents.
The smoke of praying preys
Have reached the ears of predators’ molder
It is no longer time for grace
The sinner must pay the price of plunder.
The time is up.
Now comes the rope.
The dying, dreading deaths
Scattering into the thickets.
Fate’s vengeful hand
We can’t understand,
Has lampooned a heavy blinding blow
In this grim nightmare of horror show.
Men’s shadows evaporating into the hearts of the jaunty nights
Leaving in their wake mothers running haywire in gloomy sights
Of the chubby little hands that clutch, cling to fleeing fathers.
Lost are many in the fog of the reeling melee
From the blistering foothills to the cold crest of the mountains, fathers
Refuged. These fleeing erstwhile embodiments of strength and valour strive to see
Where the bush paths would take their wives and daughters
Bent heads, crowned in shame and fear, all visages of courage left hanging
By their wives’ windows. Forgotten laughters
Adorned in loincloths, housed in caves, trembling
Sly snakes, hungry hyenas and old owls deign to come out to slay.
Helpless, they watched foreign flags hoisted, music from the ricocheting guns play
From the brainless predators who brandish televisioned weaponry,
Orgied in a macabre dance, lost in their blood-lusty frenzy.
Flags flaying on the fringes of the shattered serene
Serenity that for many born years reigned supreme
Borne now, is the living ghost town. Deserted
Withered farmlands, silent dirges for the departed
Hang low from the terrified trees.
Sorrow cloaked the insipid breeze.
A new air of poverty hovering in pomp and pageantry sits atop
A lingering desolation and mutilation that will not stop
The freshly branded face of the old town. The town is on its knees, down.
The fleeing scatterlings have abandoned their crown.
In a motionless prayer, they cry out to the hopes hanging on the horizon
Desperate to melt the gods’ heart that appear to be frozen.
Simmering songs, fledgling faith, ephemeral enthusiasm, tormented tomorrows
Marketed to hang around their necks, contemplating their new-found sorrows
Mindless carnage carefully concocted and careened upon their midst
Forcefully jolting them into forgotten realization that the dark mist
That descended were the machinations of their revered rulers.
Pray, where lie the assurances from the pretentious princes’ hulas.
Those sysops sang in garbs of salvation, preening like peacocks;
Are they, those basking in revelry in palaces placed atop the rocks.
Their fitzy filled crystal glasses enchant them as they rave, rant and ramble
In a web of crystalline subterfuge. Tongues talk, stalk like embellished wrinkle
As their aloof airs and flairs of fanfares in flurry of wanton destructions
Arise from their turbaned smugness. Such ruse, such dark deceptions
That extort our trusts, burying distant truths.
They would be future wounds to our broods.
Broken promises, beguiling tokens, rend the air
By prancing,preening statesmen from their golden-egged lair
Bloodied whispers of despair
Wheel above the hopes of the discouraged
Crying for justice from souls still sitting in limbo.
Still, the statesmen stand with their arms akimbo,
With grave faces that belie their snickering hearts
Though hopes they have already torn to shreds.
Gnawing, determined small sharp shards converge to sit tight upon the citadel
Of the ravaged villages. New messages they will see them sell
Renewing the hearts of revolt beneath the fallen wall
No more would any bitten soul walk here very tall.
Time is stilled, the forgotten tinderbox ignited.
The ancient spirits are now called, uninvited…
The men have salvaged the cusps of our courage
Together we’ll fight this scoching scourge for an age.
©️ William Warigon

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