Revolution

In our home yesteryear
Our family trees, starved and die,
They had no clue why they fell
Why they matured in hatred and watered by incisions,
Their leaflet fell like deciduous trees,
And sold for British gel
And their woods kept burning in Blazing
Until they burned our great mothers
The arborists;
Who dies in macabre
Without learning verbatim of those,
Who set our homes on fire?
Without learning verbatim of those;
Who cursed Africa?
Who brought this calamity upon her;
Depriving her of her aging culture,
Who staged her fate?
laughing at her theatrical life, but;
Aren't they weary of seeing her? Still
They glance like a narcissistic audience
Who pretends to weep while she cries,
Aren't they indulging in catching sight of her while lamenting?
Ohh! Our great mothers
The arborists,
We have had our guilt exposed and shared:
With our child's blood, whose voices are ill
Whose futures are crushed, and faked.
We had gathered at the colloquy
At the crypt of our great mothers
To bury the fate of our great mothers
And works our evergreens.