THE SHADOW

For so long the sun has gone to bed,
And faint shadows invade,
Behind the heaven’s dark roof;
Human hands fling furiously,
Thunderous fire-balls,
And churches and tall towers
Bobble-up in the flame;
To the hymn of whispering wind.
Feet and dripping hands,
To the dirge of shattering windows,
Tears and blood overflow
The dip of gutters,
And thousand heads
Overburden the open mortuary.
Yet your heart thrills to
The melody of your beautiful fire -works.
Does no roses grow in your jungle?
Are there no doves in your skies?
Have you no qualm in your blood?
You sent a mad man
Into the street, to paint it red
With the cup of his own blood.
The sleeping sun will rise gradually,
And its fiery will cast your shadow
Bold. at the door
Of every grave you dug.

© 2004 Franklin Chiakwelu