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A boy child vomits his ordeals in obscure metaphor
that foes may be blinded to his message.
He tells his tales in clouded tongues
that the hands may hear;
the legs could understand;
but the ears should not.

As a boy child crawls on weak knees
like cradles who dream to soon walk on heels
He saturates his bare buttocks
to the fate of a Scorpion’s sting
on his mother’s cracked mud floor
which spits out deadly particles
to crush the same good eggs it once vomited.

The sun and the moon take turn to smile
with no envy
But when a boy child sprouts green leaves
his Fatherland stands akimbo
unburying yesterday’s hatchets
to chop him off his roots.

under the sheets

It is in my country that a pig eats a pig for dinner.
But on one dark afternoon
the dove will hunt the lion;
and mourning echoes from the jungle will have it that,
the predator
has become
the prey.

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