By Adeniyi Stephen
Our gods do not speak English
Scattered like pebbles
Beneath the eulogic chants
No one resurrected into hell
After dying of abused admiration
For one’s homeland.
No one calls my father without rendering
Panegyric to the waist of his mother.
Before the world took its foremost step,
Civilization grew its branches
In our bellies. The classroom
Was in our stomachs. Parents
Wrote poems on the faces of infants,
And tribal marks was a sign of belonging.
In this land where birds are angels of earth
and ants are soldiers of resurrection
Tilling the earth for treasures hidden in
Breasts of a thousand women.
The night is a map of extinction,
Our roofs are hunters of solitude,
The door is a road
And the morning is a maiden of
Victorious odes to gods that don’t