Nightfall in Abakwa
Terror descends on the city streets
in the cover of darkness
like Juden Holocaust trains
headed for Auschwitz.
Reich protectors geared
for extermination
missions
storm civilian neighborhoods
with combat artillery,
kicking down
fences &
doors of defenseless homes.
The quiet of dusk is broken
by agonizing shrieky screams;
wailing that tells of the torments
inflicted on us who dared to speak.
The crunching footsteps
of solid leather boots approaching
freezes the hearts of we
whose tomorrow is not a promise.
The murderous hands
of lemon green berets lurk
in the dark doing irreparable damage
to helpless fragile flesh
as the marauding and looting
blood thirsty hounds execute
the final solution.
A few yards off a lady screams
as though in child birth malaise:
one of her sons just received a bullet
in the head, his brains splattered
on the couch like strawberry smoothie.
The second, beaten to pulp,
wailing in agony and sure
of eminent
vaporization
in underground gas chambers
is hauled into the military truck upfront.
It drives off speedily as it came.
The commandant shouts to the woman:
“il est un terroriste, oubliez-le, anglofou!”
His voice is coarse and bitter,
filled with vile hate and disdain.
We’re the forsaken, bound in shackles
for the language we speak &
branded as potential republican danger
to the rogue state of Kamangola
that governs by blood founts
of aggravated torture and terror tactics,
and spies viciously on the populace
from the
high tower overlooking Abakwa.
Daylight may quail the fears of women
and children but
unfortunately,
nightfall dines with mayhem & terror.
Blood sucking vampires and gangsters
seem ever to draw nigh with
the dark
bringing with them the woes
and tribulations of the previous
bloody night: Screams, Screams !!!
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