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How long will I sing this lone song?
How long will I dance this dirge
& celebrate the threnodies that emerge
when I know the day of my requiem is near?
I am all alone amidst these beautiful rubbles.

How long will I play the strings of my ribs?
This melancholy called music is traumatic & infectious.
Free me from these memories of bloodbath,
for the horrors of yesterday haunts me
& now I can smell my death from afar
as I count the alphabet of PAIN.

How long shall I live in pretense
& my assailants walk freely shoulder high?
Should I compose my music laden with shouting
or write a thousand letters expressing my grief?
There was a country that suffered genocide
& the horrors are shrouded in hidden texts, scattered accounts & fearful minds.

I can hear the music of the rib,
It was of hunger & death shaking hands.

under the sheets

“MUSIC OF RIBS” IS AN EXCERPT FROM “OZOEMENA”, A COLLECTION OF POEMS BY OPIA-ENWEMUCHE MAXWELL ONYEMAECHI.

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