Blood For Breakfast
And when we creep down like soldiers,
We want to scream,
We want to run,
To run to a far away land and find solace.
We want to pour our hearts,
To someone that understands our plea,
Someone that understands the true meaning of blood shed,
The pain,
The loss.
Just the other day our lovers came by,
Unannounced as is their norm.
But who doesn't like visitors??
They come laden with gifts,
Gifts so rare to find in this part of the world.
Grenades, riffles, missiles,
Name them.
We dance the tune of their music,
Occasionally stopping to catch some breathe.
And after two hours,
we're left behind.
With bodies to bury,
Tears to dry,
Blood to wipe,
And news to withhold.
Our countrymen shouldn't know of our distress.
Their hearts will break,
They will cry for us,
They will urge us to go back home.
But isn't this what we were called for??
Blood for breakfast.
Yesterday the men of the match came by,
Dressed in well cut suits,
Necks wrapped in ties,
Foreheads dripped of elegant sweat,
Vanilla spiced perhaps.
Their mouths spoke of nothing but praises.
They called us the chosen ones,
Children of their motherland,
Heirs of that nation's glory.
They labelled us national heroes,
Celebrated our fallen ones,
With flags flying half mast.
And after two hours of full buy empty talk,
They raided the sky in their antique craft,
Subjecting us to a fresh battle with the cloud of dust that they left behind.
It has been six months now.
Crumpled up in my neighbour's couch.
It is national heroes day.
I wait for my name to be mentioned.
I wait for my struggles to be known to the whole world.
I wait for the crown of glory.
I have battle scars to prove I deserve this,
My aputated leg as a result of successive bullet wounds.
I wait, nothing.
All I see are posh cars in epic roads,
Men in suits,
Women in traditional regalia.
Elegance throughout.
Talks of corruption are swept below the carpet.
There are other heroes,
Maybe you, maybe them.
Not me. Not us.
We want to scream,
We want to run,
To run to a far away land and find solace.
We want to pour our hearts,
To someone that understands our plea,
Someone that understands the true meaning of blood shed,
The pain,
The loss.
Just the other day our lovers came by,
Unannounced as is their norm.
But who doesn't like visitors??
They come laden with gifts,
Gifts so rare to find in this part of the world.
Grenades, riffles, missiles,
Name them.
We dance the tune of their music,
Occasionally stopping to catch some breathe.
And after two hours,
we're left behind.
With bodies to bury,
Tears to dry,
Blood to wipe,
And news to withhold.
Our countrymen shouldn't know of our distress.
Their hearts will break,
They will cry for us,
They will urge us to go back home.
But isn't this what we were called for??
Blood for breakfast.
Yesterday the men of the match came by,
Dressed in well cut suits,
Necks wrapped in ties,
Foreheads dripped of elegant sweat,
Vanilla spiced perhaps.
Their mouths spoke of nothing but praises.
They called us the chosen ones,
Children of their motherland,
Heirs of that nation's glory.
They labelled us national heroes,
Celebrated our fallen ones,
With flags flying half mast.
And after two hours of full buy empty talk,
They raided the sky in their antique craft,
Subjecting us to a fresh battle with the cloud of dust that they left behind.
It has been six months now.
Crumpled up in my neighbour's couch.
It is national heroes day.
I wait for my name to be mentioned.
I wait for my struggles to be known to the whole world.
I wait for the crown of glory.
I have battle scars to prove I deserve this,
My aputated leg as a result of successive bullet wounds.
I wait, nothing.
All I see are posh cars in epic roads,
Men in suits,
Women in traditional regalia.
Elegance throughout.
Talks of corruption are swept below the carpet.
There are other heroes,
Maybe you, maybe them.
Not me. Not us.
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