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THE VAGABOND VICTIM
He drops on the sandy folds,
Of a deathly bed,
A lost traveler of a mighty desert,
Parched throat, cracked skin,
He is his own Messiah,
Or another vagabond victim,
Wandering with no hopeful terminus,
Not a little help from the exalted sky,
Nor a sign from the noble stars,
Upon him the proud sun spread his wings,
Like a second generation peacock,
Until his vision he struck to an helpless dim;
The cloud in cruelty ever frown,
Smashing the inocent with his vicious stripes,
Beneath the bridge he begs with a broken bowl
While he lean upon that old wooden staff;
No children, no shelter, no shield,
Only misery, pain, anguish all a green!
O nature, nature, kind you are indeed!
Too busy you are to perceive a dying soul!
Yesterday he was, today he is tomorrow he will be,
Weeping and cursing for the pain of a shattered hope.
© Atonuje Efe
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