This is how we euphemise
the wreckful orchestra of panic
into a monologue but when being
a survivor means being the last to die.
At the refugee camp in Agadez,
bodies lay splintered & bruised,
their wounded hearts waiting
for the sickling hands of death.
We sit & death strikes, to say
everywhere is a grave & death
is always with us. Perhaps, we all
are displaced persons & the earth
a refugee camp. Then, where
is home? Home is where safety
resides & here, there are no
dwellings fitting for its habitation.
Still we call the earth a home
in the hope that we can christen
our grave the same way we name
our birthplace- womb. The truth is
this, we are too afraid to concede
to the forecasting clouds of death
before it actually rains. What
scares a man most, if not the
thought of nothingness, of voice
receding like an echo into the depth
of a gorge? We fear the presence of
oblivion. We fear the aftermath.
