A timely chirrup, a sirenic chirp
A call to early rise, a rise to a shrill call
Herald of dawn, the robin by my window pane clerp
Groans and grumbles, pillows declared null

A stride into the old wooden shack
Our kitchen machinery for policy execution
Unwebbing cobwebs of former resolutions
Interweaving a traitorous tapestry into the dark

The three sister stones are arms of government arranged
To uphold the blackened pot of justice
The firewoods are intentional matyrs ravaged
And consumed by the ravenous fire of presumed nemesis
Heated and burnt to steam the porridge
Of policies proposed for a better age
But enlisted into the stomach backstage

But what do we call embers?
Bits of fiery chips kindling the fire?

Our humble shack becomes a torment
Divided loyalty between the fire and woods
Inhabitants of the boiling kettle bubble indignantly
Incessantly raining the fire with furious torments
Staunch defenders of a firewood ideology
Against upholders of a fire philosophy

But what do we name the embers?
Coals for...