Our Farmland

Our Farmland

In this farm where boats sail on oil,
On overflowing oil, we yet live in a dream.

The things we see should not be said
The things we say should not be heard
And the things we hear
Are grossly absurd.

Such absurdities as
Trees growing upside down,
Fishes fly and birds swim.
The father and the son cannot
Look in each other’s eyes again.

Now we know they lied
Without a twitch on their eye lids, to us
When they said we elected them.
They stole our trust and our treasury,
They hijacked the future of children to come.

The goats live by the fowls
Or so they say
But they are entitled to everything
And the people nothing.

They call themselves upper class
And the people in nationwide broadcast,
“Ordinary Nigerians, Common Man.”
Alas, such puerile nomenclatures
For my fellow countrymen.

In this country of ours,
Those we trusted with crowns and scepters
Have shamed us with avaricious appetite for funds.
They gather like gluttons at the capital
To plunder the national pot of soup.
Just like George Orwell’s animals,
They are more equal than the people.
So neither the bird
Nor the tree branch can rest again.

4 thoughts on “Our Farmland” by Idiong Divine (@Idiong_Divine)

  1. Nice work divine…

    1. @Fadehan
      Thank you so much. Your compliment is very kind.

  2. This is great.
    I like more of this,

    “Alas, such puerile nomenclatures
    For my fellow countrymen.”

    Puerile which comes from Latin (puer s. boy, pueri pl. boys) depicts such
    denigrations. Thanks for this concerned piece.

    1. @oster
      Thank you so very much. I will never stop.

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