She still sits with legs crossed

and sleeps with open eyes.

The derangement, shock, and mental injury she nurses

A sad news, too young for formed ice.

The torture in her spirit, she did not think a life as this

Starvation in her kindred, a gradual semblance,

the church mice.

Her last words before she slept deep

Another black child born unwise.

The flower without sepal and petals

A reached menopause, a prize.


Oh! None of my encomiums dared suffice.

She is now dead flower, 

she is off this hour

But he promised us change, a deadly lice or pregnant lies?

                                OKOCHA OBED