After nearly three scores
of his joyous birth,
the man is still a child,
creeping,
crawling with kibbled limbs
And useless feet.
The lords drain his blood
while their minstrels
beat the drum of their pride,
swaddled with coats
sewn with tanned flesh.
Three scores raise dust
scattered around the sky,
yet childishness
rides the man like a thoroughbred;
urine and feces strew
his tattered clothes,
hollow cheeks bulge out
like calabash,
hair lay useless like hay
Even now,
these monsters have dared
to tear off his flesh
as food
since his blood
is dry like a pond
In the middle of harmattan.
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