There is a silent genocide happening in the diamond and gold district
Its Eastern citizens appear to be screaming in terror but,
No acoustic roughness dare come out of their mouth
Instead, the horror is made visible through the purple rings
Beneath their sight, and within orbs, the sclera has changed to blood red,
Tears both running from their bloody eyes and noses
As if they had just seen Stanley’s ghost.
While they flee to a neighbouring village,
Every step becomes lighter until they have completely
Transpired into weightless beings.
Careful not to make a sound, they cross the streets
And fields trying not to walk on eggshells, only the empty shells are planted grenades
When a bullet helplessly reaches their back,
A transparent liquid quietly descends their flesh and
Leaves the temple they once housed, taking the source of life with them.
Even by the way bombs fall from the skies,
You would have thought it were unhurried rain
Calming the thirst of a fiery ground
Or hand-made snowflakes for they never cared to roar.
Dead bodies are not met with proper burials like we know
Of them in the West
They silently reverse into dust on the same soil they had been executed.
When a baby is born, it doesn’t take long for it to
Crawl back into their mother’s womb and
Entirely erase itself from existence.
The journalist in the midst of it all takes out a device
But, the camera doesn’t flash, it stands still.
And on the way home to the working desk, a pencil and piece of paper
Both escape to the tree they were once cut.
There is a chant with just a few lines sung by citizens turned into overnight soldiers
It goes: “My mother gave birth to me / I was born to die.”
But, their hymn can only be heard by birds as it crosses
The battlefield and makes its way to the heavens.










Photo by Nsey Benajah on Unsplash