How do we tell our dead
That in this time and age
Death is only a mercy~
To those whose night rained fire & bullets.

How do we tell them
That their world is kinder
Than the living in Borno and Benue,
Whose government turns to pillars of salt
While guns dance at the market square in Jos.

How do we tell them
That all the demons meant to torment the ungodly among them
Now live among us and wreak havoc.

How do we tell them to pray for us
When our voices are drowned
By the laughter of AKs,
Bullets dig into babies~
Their flesh bleeds humanity.

How do we tell them
There are no prayers left in us~
That the last one we offered
Lost its way
Trying to dodge endless gunfire?

How do we tell our dead
We need their peace
Because our ears ache
From the cries of innocent children.

How do we tell them
That while they rest in peace
Violence roams their graveyard,
And their living buried along with them.

Do they not see them lying lifeless
As humanity lays dead roses over their graves?

Do they not see the boreholes,
The bullets carved into the skin of their beloved?

Maybe this is why
we cannot tell them~
because we are already among them.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ante Samarzija on Unsplash