By Dara Adenekan.


The gods do not take fated cows.
They feed on human dreams.
A biennial festival of shame
At the temple of knowledge.
Its altar drenched in dreams and despair.
Its priests watch with fake benignity
As wearied dancers twist to intricate beats
Of ancient sting.
See them on the media
Altering incantations of doom.
The stiff stilted spectators
Standby with rapt attention.
When will this fiendish festival stop
That slaughters hope
On its ignoble altar.
Please call off this festival.

The Festival Crew : to THE CHIEF PRIEST.
This biennial festival of sloths,
Where you burn dreams and hope
As incense to your goddess of LUCK.
You sit tearing your sacrificial prey;
Limbs, heart and legs.
You ‘incant’ bogus promises and troths,
While we watch with unquenched thirst.
Drinking from the droplets of our own saliva.
Our hears are tired of hearing
Sly incantations of doom
From your altar of debauchery.
When anger turns to a burning rage,
Then we shall burn this goddess.
And your vicious LUCK shall run out.
Tell it to the wind;
Tell it to the breeze;
Tell it to the storm;
Let them carry it far and wide,
‘a REVOLUTION is on its way.’
Freedom rides firmly on its back.

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We wake-up each morning
To the glee of your talking drum.
Hoping to hear a new rhythm.
But this horrendous tympan
Has only one throbbing note;
‘The festival Continues.’
Oh drum major! Please, stop this wooden cylinder
That beats everlasting rhythm to idleness.


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