My Country Describes Itself to Me
I am your nemesis, Jídé;
I am your field of grief
where men return
with smeared hands
and hopes are crushed to bone dust
its white powder ferried away
by the rage of harmattan.
I am the rot of memory
that tingles your stomach.
I am the strange affairs of dreams
that purged you of purity in the night.
I am the deep gorges of guilt.
I am the slur of tongues
asking for your righteousness.
I am your love, Jídé.
And no matter how much I torment you
you shall return to me.









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