We’re not victims
Even though our necks
Are tied to facts
That were fanged
By the rootless predator.
We’re not victims
When our farmlands
Are razed off with famine
And children feeding from promises
With kwashiorkor as a golden necklace
Displayed in geniality and gorgeousness.
We’re not victims
But our hands were soiled
With the thorns of indecision
As if we were born traveling
Without a map to reach home.
And in the nucleus of doubt,
Who are we?
Who is the victim?
The land has cried off her tears
With rainfall and has emptied
All her tears of generation
In a year for her inhabitants;
Her beauty and temples of worship,
Temples of entertainment,
And that of sports has been shut down.
Would you still call me a victim?
Nope, the land is a slave
Of her inhabitants.