Crying in Hiccoughs

Our Byzantium Day

32 And I at the tail end shall fine, So, tarry not Thy mighty order,” ‘All about turn’. Bamenda The cliffs of Golgotha, The crucifix of Buea Hang on, encaving Bethlehem. Into the crucible, The slug ventured, Killed, gave birth, And was born, Fon of Fons. Now the cycle is complete, The dagger is set, The butcher on the slab, Encages himself in bullet proof. Our Byzantium Day On that day, our Byzantium day, We the children in glazed blue, Marched tall, with heads raised high, To hail our dads, our goody, goody dads. Each of them, a grey suit wore, To match his head, a balding one, And in each, our infant eyes saw, A smouldering love, befitting the day. 33 Each eleventh day of the second month, A lovely day devoted for us, Our goody dads made the pledge, ‘As the elderly age, the young must sprout.’ With great desire we nursed our hopes, Till the beard replaced the down, But now, our adult eyes see, Not for us, the day was meant. Each ashy head is well entrenched, Rejuvenating in wealth and care, And bids us all to wait tomorrow, Tho’ their ’morrow never ends. We wriggle in pain and cause alarm, Yet on deaf ears that surely falls, When patience loses its charm of hope, The only option, defy the rule. We once did, and six lay dead, Our goody dads slew their heirs, There’s a goblin in each black head Dread it not, and you will be dead. You’ll be dead but be not scared, In whatever way, you are dead, Die fighting, never surrendering, Our only option, fight it on. There’s glory dying on the field, It’s a shame shying away, Move forward, never backward, Mandela did, and won our wills. ...