Sakwa Franc

The Cry That Will Judge

If things got expiry date

Then let my tears dry

Out of their graves they cry

Justice, justice, where is your jury?

Gunshots in the morning bandits in the evening

 

Before they know how to trudge

Young men falls quiet in red pools

No place to call a home and no food

Some wander in unknown places

The last enemy knocks no one survives

 

Naked and without hope

Kwashiorkor eats them 

Media houses are attracted 

Rusty blades devour young girls

Bleeding , bleeding , the land is polluted

 

In foreign streets the cry is the same

Those with black skins are inferior

Their spray is bullets and their water is blood

Filed and forgotten cases, the cry

Cancer is in our cells the racism

 

Before their knockers are fully exposed

Sisters are caged in prisons of prostitution

Like doormats they are used and damped

Money in their pockets but souls in graves

My heart bleeds.