A COUNTRY OF LONER
By Matiop Alier (Metabolic), USA
–
As they wake up in cracks of Sun dawn
There, they wander afar as they can get by.
Yet in their living herded quarters, like now,
It’s from hand to mouth as they toiled in files.
And as they’re only under barrages of crumbs.
In those daily rages they withered asunder
In these dungeons of ruts, mugged by net
Of dying bony souls and night time workers
In what seems a reverie of their Sundown?
As they recede back to seclusion of fate!
–
When a benevolent hope resides in shackles
In now their new poverty shrouding its cloud
In shadowy misery of dusty world of loneness,
The squalid conditions of capital lie in bereft.
As the night of poverty casts its sore wings
Only then its crack a gap in lo and behold
On men and women with stare of dead eyes.
A child whose world lies in unmoved filthiness
And a ruler, whose mouth oozed with wealth
Of the land: its sorry grief of inescapability.
–
In a lone misery, how did they arrive here?
And was it a self-pity poverty of their choice?
Yet, an eight month old bustard, an orphan
Of insolvency, lies grotesquely in dying body
Sighing with bones and atomic cells in waste
Of his Republic; it’s a dungeon of challenges
Now staggering in cardinals like a thin sheet
A pit hole of their colonial masters, a home
A self-Buzzing with countless dungeons of dogs,
Thus a fatherland of crumbs and godforsaken
Lazarus of Africa’s inequality of new Dubai.
As they searched here, there, and everywhere
In an incandescence of cockcrow in Sundown
It’s inescapability of assured neglects and grief!
–
Those batten up on an asphalt of misery
And those who sink in this reality of Juba
They say, are beggars of state parentage.
A beggar who manned up enough, however,
In solvency of self-assured glorification of thy,
Dear leaders and liberators of his republic
Only made stagnation of running stomachs
They called it a cholera of own making.
–
Yet in their lone universe, they quivered
In share of misery with venomous beasts.
When they sing the praise of robber baron
In their redundancy of his abject Paradise
Like a dimwit carpetbagger of his country
Freedom! Freedom! Independence at last!
–
But is he freed of ocean of paucity of land?
Those victims who shuffled in unholy wind
In man-eat-man’s capitalist society of men
There a true liberator of his own republic
But now an expendable bastard who sits
In a salient waste below ladder of totem
Of humanity: its unfathomed wretchedness.
It’s as if these men and women who sink
In pauperism with diamond of their desires
It’s theirs before you believe all its tow.
–
Then the raising candle waxes of night,
Came in their long shout in their herded
Living conditions, almost with self-pity
Of a ranger; it’s only love and culture.
But from this noble hiatus and haste,
The wastes sore like an ancient Cave
And those could proclaim it, however,
Lay in their graves, with dignified souls.
–
Each one of them offers prayers in heart
As if it’s that of deprived dreamless soul
The dawn and bequeath of African nation,
Now, her Sun has been reduced and mixed
With crumbs and miseries of ingrate files.
His hope has finally altogether lost steam
And the smell of the land all lies in its
Hours of rages and barrages of dungeons;
It’s only then they realized their dimness
Theirs is a freedom in A Country of Loner!
–
Disclaimer: written at Custom, Juba (January 2014)
~Metabolic
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