OUR HIS STORY.

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If home was honey
The last bees of our family are sojourners
Bounded in abound chains,
For we our charcoal kings
Are mummies on animal skins in the jungle,
While our lords sleep and wine on gold
That reads our sweat beads
Left chained by our lords.

Darkened clouds ruled the sky
With mountains and hills watching us afar,
But who have angered the sky
To shoot doldrums even at the sky’s monarchs?
Flashlight of the sky rods laminated our way
But now to our lords,
Swaying directionless,
We Wade across the Bermuda triangle.
Wearing our roasted skins
And bidding farewell to a home

Where lies the power of their power that maimed our power?
For ours are spelled in our totems
In whose worship we ruled nations.
But here we are Fulani cattle
Tethered to chambers during moon
Shepherd to the fields in sun
A whipped like we stole the sun.
Our Eves are libido machines
Who are actually them?
And who are we?

The steel night sleep grey
With us without roofs
When our eyes are nodding,
We are logs on the farms.
When our sheep give birth goats
They shall realize the plots of the dog
As a mere accompany to the farm
But our bones will hero ancestors in their minds.

©Fuseini Dipantiche Mohammed Naporoo Kamaldeen Shitobu  (Creative thinker)

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