My tears would not flow again
My aspirations will not be just a dream in vien
My Labour would not be of pain
It's was not the slave trade
It's was not the fault of poverty with its sharp blade
It's was not the failure of my rich culture and prosperity that become obsolete and fade
I'm a true son of a hunter
I'm a true nephew of a farmer
I'm a true grandmaster of my labour
It is time to take the bull by the horn
It's time to live or die by own hand quietly not to mourn
It's time to powder our faces and smiles to adorn
If a bird doesn't fly it will bed on an empty stomach
If pistil and mortar will not go through rat abode it's will not make them a monk
If hen calls for layering, the onus and the verge lie on her in bonk
If all the bridges are blown by invaders will fly over the flank
Nothing will stop the tides
Nothing will change the times
Nothing will damage the prides
We will forge our swords for the fight
We will surge through any missile on sight
We will merge our retoucher to conquer the enemy with all our might
©® Felix Atta Amoakoh
8/10/22
©felixatta
F