|published, January. 5. 2019 |22:40

Tattered Beauty on the Street of Motherland

~ By Ikenna Ozulumba Mbaegbu

l saw the act
So rough but pretty
l called her paragon
Of beauty and eloquent
That gift of human
That  never seized to occur
In every man's lips,
Pose ruggedly on the street laughing
Seriously without season
So happy in face
So sad in thought
Her choice is stunning
The flag of her hobby
Designed with many colours
Red and black
Yellow and green
Smiling around her waist
Pleading for freedom
From heartless men of greedy

The quest< is open
Just like the appearance
Of her beauty
That glows
Like the candle light,
On a clear night
Though, she's not too tall
And not too small
Not vocal and serious
Yet chant freedom! freedom!!
In her funny way

br /> Her laughs so nice
But agony in disguise,
Her mind so empty
Like a deserted street
But knows the direction
Of the  wind when it blows

Yes, when the
Inner thought visits
And she laughs
She moves in contact with
The ocean of wretchedness,
And slavery she swims along
With the people of the land
The suffering  hidden
From the eyes of the world

like one in a trance
She will stand to dance
To and flo she will prance
As she claps and laughs
All to herself,
Neither aware of the onlookers
Nor is she dancing to the tune
Of the market music
But to her song of lullaby,
Her only song of lullaby,
That only her knows the lyrics,
And whatever that sings for her,
None ever can tell.

Her name, Nwaka
A true daughter
Of the soil
Who basks in turmoil,
Whose joy has long gone
And sadness there to taunt her on.

Her name, Nwaka,
A Biafran Mad woman
A child of heaven
Walking among the living
Existing, but not truly living.

Edited & Published by IPOB WRITERS PRESS
Contact: ipobwriters@ipob.org
Twitter: @ipob_writers


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