Long time ago was how our story also started
even before the birth of us lied in our story the palm wine stupor of moonlight myths
The history of the king in the jungle and the crispy dances that ruled in Egypt
To the bank of the horizon where the sun will never rise again
To the dawn of crafty artificials that slowly matched our lifespan
Trading our freedom for mirrors and right-kneeling stoods among made-gods...the blessed luckless servant
The scary viel of virtues and valor's of the looting no one dares to tell under the transparent moonlight

But there came some nerves in the body that shook away the chains...
All brightness was a facade
Slowly
Or the offsprings knew not the art to rule
But have given to the dark art and heart of looting with innocent glooves...

Waters and sweats from the western ocean are all gone now...
Sing no bitter panegyrics to the selfless misers in hats and coats
We are not lost in their timeline but ours

No blame for the gentle goons who reaped us bare and left us to toil our lands like wandering Cain,tursling might with spite over and over
No blame for the angel who stole in the night...
He only foretold the birth of a thief in the rising sun
Blame the thief who bathed in December goodnews, claiming to bear January's salvation...
Tying the wealth of the nation in democryptic militia manner to the shores beyond the bank of Africa...




The white chains have gone old and frail
But replaced already with thick big
Black ones with our names inscribed on it all...
History is ours...so is the present