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Dry your pains, Biafra!
Your harbingers of hatred to come to you
Out of heist of their desperate chase

Through the zenith of
— mountainous hills
When churning beyond stride of playthings.
Though the rain comes of red
Vesting crowns of thorn on your foliages
At your cornfields in expunging animus

Dry your tears, Biafra!
Though we have sipped the divinities
Of the market-place, on slapdash jogs,

And we return every day on crossings,
A tongue-tied obsession in bamboos
Blurred on the pearled leaves of
Your outstretched legs

under the sheets

Dry your tears, Biafra
Across the purpled crest of your rise
And bushes overfed with forgone crowns
Of golden urchins groping in the arms
of treachery and yellowed bellies.

When the sun gets tightened
Rats depart in the league of lizards

Dry Your Tears;
Though your children have become bibulous
In their unbridled crusade,
And have slain love on the alters of foes

Though your blooded grasslands,
Their heavy sleets decompose
And turn home on the lead of your lamp,
Hoisted so lofty, in the evenings of agony
Dry your pain and hear
—the hurrahs of dreaded Savannahs..

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Jaachị Anyatọnwụ is a poet, editor and publisher from Nigeria. His writings are inspired by everyday happenings and observations.

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