(By Gyan Enock)

In the heart of a wicked blaze
A soul to save was my craze
For two less than a score
Till my own life was harvested
A womb to bear, a family to care
Surely the hunter is merciless
Even towards the sick animal
An impoverished venture, a cold death

Alas! Poor woman,
Life tore with a rope
The latter can be mended
But who can mend life? Who?
Like a snoring tide
My wailing soul has banished silence
In this land of no come back
An impoverished venture, a cold death

On the continent of “Do little”,
They carry us shoulder high
We are the local champions,
We win the laurels of mediocrity
But it is only the ears
Close to the river
That discovers that the crab snores
An impoverished venture, a cold death

Indeed, I prophesied the pageantry of my burial
Fresh cedi notes migrating from their snoring yards
And kissing virgin palms
Hallelujahs for a lifeless body
The paradox of honoring the dead
With billions which could have sacked the demise
Is the stomach superior to life?
An impoverished venture, a cold death

The writer; a student at the Ghana Institute of Journalism, is the leader of Orange Education Ghana and a member of the African Leaders Project of the African leadership academy, based in Johannesburg; South Africa.

Email: gyanenock@yahoo.co.uk