Until the War is Over

This is neither a song nor protest
It is not a riddle
That bears a silent meaning.
This is neither a spat nor rant
It is not a rark-up*
That rouses the mind to rout.

But until fires quench in the street,
The mouth may not rest its plea to God.
Until the smoke subsides,
Until this land cease to bleed,
And the festering sore heals,
The pen may not rest its roar to the earth.

Truly ears may be reluctant to hear,
And eyes too dim to read,
Yet the ears, though reluctant,
Are not dead.
The persistent chants of the gods
Shall quicken them to hearing.

Until the fiery darts of the foes deflect to hell,
And a man is fearless
To traverse the streets of his fatherland;
Until masquerade is unmasked
For the eyes to know the demons
Beating the drum of Haram
For the Bokos and the Bandits
The tide of lockdown may soon set
In our borders.

Until hunger is banished in the land
And the mind starts to mind other minds
For equal sharing of the commonwealth,
Until slavery is exiled to far lands
And tribalism is displaced;
The rift in the land may not mend.

Until power changes the scheme
Until incessant signing out of the fighters stayed
And fighters are safe to stay
The repentant bokos may soon be
The only defence force left guiding lives.

Until justice embraces justice
And justice no longer cuddles the wrong,
Until the thieves are brought to book,
Until the palm retires
From the service of bribery
And the gain justifies our toils;
Pain may not flee its perch in our plexus.

Until the eyes loathe the sight
Of the naked breasts dangling in the streets,
And of the butt-cheeks of perverted humans
Flaunt temptingly in sacred places;
Until heart stops the beat
To the silent song of lust
And the mouth cease to pleasure
In the praises of the worldliness in the hallowed places
The mouth’s plea may not rise beyond the roof.

Truly ears may be reluctant to hear
And eyes dim to read
Yet the ears, though reluctant
Are not dead.
The persistent chants of the gods
We pray shall quicken them to hearing.

For now
No praise shall be sang
To delight the prevalent servitude,
Nor shall there be any accolade
To please the piggish ani-mans
Who devour our land with rapacious voracity
In order to gratify their selfish appetite.
No balm of melodies shall be applied
To heal their diseased hearts.

And until this war is over
And wind of ease flows all over. . .

The mouth shall not rest its plea to God.
The pen will not rest its roar to the world.
And the chant of struggle –
Will flow on
and on
and on
and on . . .