Dexters' Arena!: October 2013

Africa,

The fertile land for men in clerical shirts with dog collars,

Men who lived in a hut devoid of the sun,

They stand on the altar painted with mud and thus proclaim

“Thus says my pocket, thou shall be filled.”

The colour that beholds beauty;

But this colour term to have blinded the lifeless people,

Those who stand and wait for the sky to fall,

The sky that is held by men who have soiled their hands with blood;

Men who stand to show their gift of the gab.

Africa,

A safe land for men, who hide in the invincible cloak of wickedness,

And speak peace under the sun,

Peace that is very far from their darkened heart.

The landing space for men that have sold their stars to their masters,

Controlling their appearance and shining.

For the sake of an unseen reward,

They trumpet down the walls of our country,

And litter the grave yard with the pieces of our brothers.

To such men I ask “where have your conscience gone?”

Africa,

The sun that determines the brightness of the moon;

You strive for the star,

Yet it seems to be deeming away from you,

Bringing the dark clouds to your eyes,

And leaving us to kiss the thorns with our feet –

Look up, and never look down.

Flood the land, but do not flood the people.

Hide your raindrops from the thirsty scavengers,

Whose missions are to separate the roots from the soil,

To brown the green,

And to storm the calmness of the sea;

Let the land fertilize them all.

Dexters' Arena!