The Black Sea


The water to fire,

Road to land of liars,

Of a greener pasture not yet found,

Yet they seize not to learn,

But ends as sea merchants earn.


Survival of the fittest,

Taking the risk of the deepest,

Thought of the land can’t get better,

With their lives in peril of a make shift boat,

Strong winds and thunderstorms.


My presidents are dying,

My Governors are crying,

Due to the endless trip of fortune,

Which lies nowhere,

But in their hands.


Killing each other,

Putting the skin aside as brothers

But seeing each other as enemy to cross over

And end in the bars,

Gun down like dog in the streets,

Daily meal for the traffickers,

Money for the Pirates.


What a pity!

Of either not killed by the floating sea,

Or dies by white man’s golden pea,

For being an unwanted guess

With nothing to lose for their distress.


Save your breath,

And hold on to something here,

The soil belong to you,

With lot of gold unused,

Even with the stupid heads,

Everything will get better,

Than to serve as meal for the gutter.


Poet: Oso Olasunkanmi



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