A little story.
A little story; you’d call it,
Of birds that didn’t fly,
Of the shut-doors unyielding,
Of the horns that clogged,
Locked in eternal embrace.
And could never let go.

His excellency.
My fellow countrymen; he’d start
Let’s be happy; he’d imply
A long way we’ve come; he’d recall
A milestone we’ve achieved; he’d remark
Let’s all come together; he’d suggest
And sip from the common broth; he’d lie.

Under the Ray.
Soaked and drenched; in their sweat,
Burning from above; rained pitiless rays
Burning from below; razed the cruel sand
Burning from within; their unrelenting thirst
Yet they clapped and screamed his name,
In their soiled clothes; under unflinching rays.

“Quick Fix”
Of the axe that slayed a doctor,
Of the needle that sewed kid’s lips,
Of the scissors that de-eared a woman,
And the girls that stoned newsmen.
Yet the image on the coin;
Was paramount of all,
And a handshake care to say;
Was the “quick fix” to their problems.

The Metaphor.
And so went the little story,
Of a sick little nation,
United in unforgetfulnes;
Of the bang and the fury,
That prefaced the big metaphor,
Of a sad Locked Horns.

By. Dennis K Bundi.

Published by Bundikiambi

"GO PLACIDLY amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons." Desiderata

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