Yahaya Madu

Chronicler of the art of life.

Mercenary

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Barman, please, another beer. I am meditating.
The unforgotten sounds of gunshots in
The starry night.
For what did they die? For Nothing.
As the lie goes, the root of all things.
To become honorable and glorious carrion
For vultures
Is the patriots lot.
The dew of blood underneath trees in shadows
That a happily weeping widow
– “Sign here, for his benefits and gratuities.”-
May cash a perfumed cheque. Peace.
This the night of flowers
That in honour, diamond stones,
Decks the graveyard. Of the shiny bullet and sword.
Crucify the Son of God. Let’s have some barbacue.
Green leaves fall of fruitful trees,
To earth a sun
In eclipse.
Water rushes down the mountain rocks
To bathe a form
From the shadows of spilling blood
Not for money.
This pile of heroic dead, a feast for the pecking vultures.
How much to put a bullet in his head?
Stud his chest in the hug of fire?
You have the money?
Then let’s play.

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Author: yahaya madu

Life is a Bed of Roses, Thorny but Beautiful. Novelist, short story writer and poet.

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