Posted: July 4, 2017 by PaanLuel Wël Media Ltd. in Poems.

Riak Marial Riak, Juba, South Sudan

Political cartoon by Ajith Isaiah Majok

Political cartoon by Ajith Isaiah Majok

You bleed upon your crash by the winging eagles,

your curse to the earth fall splendidly like spear

and name never eat the red-eyed eagles from the sky.

i hide from the swiftly buzzards standing with cleading wings above,

the furze made upon the pomping soothsayers of the eastern shores

need to be eyed from the trembling sky with chasing wind and wind.

my impetuous run waving to the quivering grass,

my leaving the owls camping along the shore whistling death,

my crunch laughter imitated by the vulture above the paradise.

haphazardous trees falling low and shedding blood to the earth,

the night wind breaking my eyes travelling to meet vaulted famine,

i felt fears dragging me back to the bleeding forest and gleeful wood.

but my swimming birds you seem to have abandoned this shore,

i come with dreams in the dark clouds to love the loving eastern birds,

and to the flinging wind you rush to the sky and leave me to tears.

what are you merrier ones? the moon shone half to the dancing preys,

it shone the half light to the flying birds and shut it doors to human world,

i break the ebony tree trying out all that belongs to my weakened arm.

but i saw you shaking and sweating in present of coldness,

i saw you denying having beaks to confront the deadly prey in the sky,

you leave everything in your sake to live a nightmarish life sweet birds.

be the defender of your need sweet eastern birds,

be the standing protector of your will sweet lamenting birds,

your curse upon the sands is grueling your desire to live.

i thought to call rain and spit on the eastern shores and drawn,

the love of the nature friending me and the bursting Nile sending me hails,

the wish of living world is to see eagles adapting your good heart sweet birds.

o if i were the mover of the clouds in the sky above

i would have asked them to stop sending me dreams of dry world,

if i were the sender of the flood i would ask my workers to stop pulling trees down

and for the eastern crops to grow taller than the tropical forest,

for the eastern grasses to dance like dancing harlots in the clashing hall

and the dim sky to break into day light and for the eastern birds to merry my day.

the dying birds on the shore whacking in the name of severe drought,

it is dew making them sustainable in that short creeping night,

the temporal wind gushing in the wood chasing predatorial birds.

i have remained shy to fly my thought with you in the sky,

i have become wild of the fate freaking your chirping on the shore

and deaf ears regretting your choiry of the designated perish in the world.

my blame to the kings of the sky is failing to convince the rain maker,

the stiff tears shed by nestling would have found their way and day,

all the agonies of the womb even in the sky reach you shivering eastern birds.

it was autumn last year i came and found your young mates trembling,

it was in the dying fall i built the cart to transport you to the end of universe perished,

it was my generous heart making me swifter than snow to hide you from the storm.

you have remained numb to your own life on that gloomy shore,

the doom i have seen from the leaves of the trees oozy nasty blood,

the world is vast that a safer place could be found for you but not now.

your living is defined from bleakness of the sky and signs coughed by the owner,

the leaves are dead and years will be traumatic if you will still remain blind,

the branches are withering from the lack of dews in the forest and even the snow.

float with me like logs to see our land where sun rise every morning,

even in your shore the locusts are hidden and never to be seen,

the terrible whispers of the wind sing your appalling state of living.

sons and daughters of the sky blow your tunes to the dreaming dying birds,

the quiet moon is spreading deadly rays to your fallen forest and the wood,

the wake of the waning sun is all red for you to fly eastern birds.

o the song to the gratefulness will be blown with the spring winds,

let the dying bird die, o dying bird but let her child live under the sun,

the morrows we know are now our dooms and sorrows also under this sky.

You can reach the poet via his email: Riak Marial Riak <>

The opinion expressed here is solely the view of the writer. The veracity of any claim made are the responsibility of the author, not PaanLuel Wël: South Sudanese Bloggers (SSB) website. If you want to submit an opinion article or news analysis, please email it to SSB do reserve the right to edit material before publication. Please include your full name, email address and the country you are writing from.

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