Tade Ipadeola
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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