A Withered Flower

We are in the brink of collapse

For we have nothing but a conundrum to choose from.
In the past, we had our heads high
But today, those heads are pale meadows, that can’t even feed a calf.

We cried of the white-man’s burden
But that alone is better than the decades we lived in his absence.
For at least he dined not upon our meek lives;
For at least he taught us new avenues to fit well in the rest of the societies;
For at least he paved a way out for us to earn a living as does many men of today.

We cried of his burden only because he called our fathers ‘boy’ instead of ‘papa’;
We cried because he built him a boy’s quarter instead of a round mud hut;
We cried because we thought we lost our manhood when he started dressing us like his kindred;
We cried only because we thought the gold and silver we battered were not traded fairly;
And we failed to understand that until today, we can’t even efficiently make value of those buried gems.

We lost the white-man’s burden to our own men who are only greedy to enrich themselves;
In every second that pass by, they drink our bloods,
And in every second, they keep butchering our innocence.
And we, what have we today to pride of,
When every barbaric word or disease is said today to originate from us
And we cannot deny them, because even our leaders failed to fend for our weakened souls,
Yet they glamour colonialism for their own failures to leads us well.

I say even the white-man’s burden is better for us,
For he never ruled us with daily dreams and lies
But the cohort of vermin led us to nowhere but to the brink of the rouged mountain,
And today, what have we to pride of,
Nothing but a tiny nation like a withered flower.


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