EPHIALTES



The sappling
That once begged
The mighty Oak
For the remnants of rain,
Is now an Iroko.

The Iroko
Dares the wrath
Of the farmer’s cutlass
For its keenest edge
Only tickles.

The belle
That used to bathe in the rain
See her, hiding
Behind banana leaves;
What have we not seen?

Is this watered land not ours?
Did we not cover
The come bearing shoes
When this trampling foot
Was still bare?

Now, we are turned away;
Our blunt cutlass
Fail to punish the Iroko
And the belle
Hides from us her face.

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