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Wednesday, March 25, 2020

Pestilence: Francis Ocran



Behold the pale horse of pestilence
Fearful but approaches loudly silence
Death is his angelic rider
Like vanished myth but slander
Smiting all that cross his path, a killer
Beyond the eyes but more than near
We milked complacency thinking we can bear
But his hooves sink, in our soul they spear
Splashing our blood like doctrinaire.




Poor desert sand dunes
Were gathered where whirlwind communes
Dilemma of pendulum and monsoons
Hopelessly hopeless altruistic
Our strength failed like mystic
And the black pandemic asylum
Counting us in turns into his bosom
The long claws pick us like tongs
Injecting our body with his prongs
Each day his pain prolongs
We are full of unforgivable wrongs.


Oh! Lord we plead your mercy
We concede to our acrimony
Forgive and save us from this adversity
Else whose turn we can't tell
We can't tell Lord, we can't tell
Under your wings we plead to dwell
For there we shall excel
We plead  not your dispell
Let's escape this snare like the gazelle
For whose turn we can't tell
We can't tell Lord, we can't tell
Save us from this cartel



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