Tomorrow, I shall sing another dirge.
Not for wasted widows that murmured in the harmattan dust,
Nor for mad men that lost their voices in the last rain that dropped before
Not for virgins abducted in torn uniforms,
Nor for girls that we have now found with maximum sweat and protruded
My tears shall linger at Crossroads.
Not for native men of our fallen biafra,
Nor of streets where echoes fell like impotent songs.
Not of the still winds that blew across old graves,
Nor for countless burnt bodies where statistics became confused.
Not for nights where silence is untouched,
Nor for mornings when images fail to form.
When tomorrow shall come,
I shall run as life taught me,
The race in a single lane.
The journey of life…