Tears Have No Colour

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    Cold stream dredged eagerly through Nana’s brazen tribal lashes,
    Hajia fetched a ‘basketful’ when Fatima found her fate splattered across Dapchi’s broken path.

    Tears have no sordid marks
    But leave solid cracks
    On cheeks languishing the brutal desolation of tender minds.
    Finding metallic morsels glued to their exposed gullets;
    only then do men know that their daughters lay still along paths telling riddles in wasted bullets.

    Tears share no gender sentiments.
    Every man’s curtained truth is recounted in vitreous concealed flow of bile
    And Garuba’s damaged spleen.
    Pour, wipe… The Benue found a course, perusing Baba’s empty gaze.
    When Chibok swallowed dry phlegm, our safe haven was a joke played on Johnnie’s wit.

    Till Dapchi mocked the wise; sharing national disgrace of a hundred and ten, meat?
    Let the girls come home,
    from Sambisa, and along broken Dapchi’s plains forget about the claims.
    Through crystal clear or fogged stream flowing from baba and mama’s clogged nostrils,
    Tears finally tell its colour in lucid dreams of shattered, scattered vivacious tendrils.

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