Tade Ipadeola

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II

 

There is a dappled song of rust

Trembling in the stricken throat

Of silenced guns,

There is a russet song of sorrow

Whimpering

Upon this beachhead of the Middle Passage.

The very soil of the Island hums the song

When the last tourist must have left

Echoing the sorrow of the song in shades

Incandescent and tortured as the memory.

 

 

And you can hear this Island lamenting and lost

Haunted like the eyes of scattered children

Seeking shelter in a strange and rattled world

Thrust out at turns by traitors and aliens

 

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