The Country
Is my own, Yet I hate it, I dont joke with the cake, Wether cake tree grow or not, Is never my pain.
I'm a tree with flourished roots, Yet my leaves are dead dried up. Our pockets are fat abroad, Yet cancer eat up our skin at home. Like ashes falling from a burning wood.
Children, my leaders of tomorrow, They are on walking stick now, Every tomorrow come with old leaders, With the future so dark like charcoal, Because our dreams are in somebody's pocket.
In this my country, What I live, I live, What I get, I get, What I take, I take, Now what I vote, I vote.
In my lips I will say I love you, And my heart will say I hate you. Why trees don't pray for winds？ They rather be passionate for rain, So passionate like Moses.
In this my land, Let Jonah go to Nineveh for good errand, Let every charcoal heart change for good, Now let every pharoah stand up from every sit, So that many Moses can lead us to Canaan.
-Warri Stanley