Lakai Saadiq III

Oy ye Gods,

Disciples of the unspoken word.

Sons and daughters of Matador.

Born of sequel prayers in a war zone, as light bearers.


They are here,

Seekers of self in the wilderness.

Choosing to walk with wings on their back.

With eyes wide shut,

And a godly spark within untuned.


alluded from the highest realms, now.

As grave diggers with shovels on their tongue.

Thrown to the dumping site of our land where carnivores scavenge carnivores.

They are citing among us.


Feeding greedy hands before empty stomachs.

Hoping spoken word would flip the token well and tune their rhythm,

and sync it to the pulse of the earth.


But instead,

as within as the universe reside,

tales are of broken winged fairies.

stories are tusseled, re-scripted and turned.

Blue prints, blown-away by heathen gusts and scared by ferns.


On our late night recitals,

lies on the silver-linings of the skies,

untold stories of our lifetime in forever changing wingspans  of the moon.

So we access, reflecting about what shall come upon,

the world we know of, shifty in its shapes.

Seen through chameleon’s eye                                                                                                                                                              A film railed perspective


Thousand images to capture

Across the world we now call Utopia.

Our faith, soon to heave.

Never to be remembered in any scribbling patterns or voices of our hearts.

our forefathers and mothers screams, echoes their last.

Across an ageing land of a dying totem.


Across grounds of stolen Gods and treasures postmortemed.

To temper with our past.

To step dirty feet’s on our angelic wings our pride, soon to crash.

Our pyramids, temples and altars to be worn by the desert sands.

And have offspring forgetting themselves.

They speak of how our bloodline rivers streams shall be emptied to feed Dead Gods.

How our family trees shall be uprooted from a land where mother earth shelters her umbilical cords


Kings, shackled

Queens, slaved

Our homes,dismantled

Our dignity, displayed

Sacred altars, shuffled

Our traditions put to shame.


We bare our bravery across the wilderness.

Children with endless tears, yet titans at a grieving heart.

Run across waste lands.

Our bare feet swell, crack and tear.

In search for a better hunger.

Away from home.


Where trees burn and the fire smokes hopes

Where warlords powder their nose and cannibalism unfolds.

We seek  shelter beneath the wounded moon.

Beneath the shivering sounds of laughing hyenas and weeping tunes.

Dreams of sleeping are cocoons of dreadful nightmares.

To cloud our thoughts and have our tomorrow in smokescreens of nuclear.


As to us, children of the night,

Bare our bravery across the wilderness.

Hundreds of to be fed.

A dozen of infants.

With a fear of where we led.

But the instinct of the eastern star directs.

Who will teach us to nurture the future in our hands?


For we are merely last kids of a dead Kingdom without the knowledge of our age suppressed.

The sun dangles ridiculously across days to pass, the nights dribbled by intense fears and recitals of windblown tales of our forefathers and lullabies of our deceased mothers


The sky fevers from the scent of rebels.

100 miles away, we still shiver from shots of A.Ks and Riffles.


Young sisters tremble from their first menstrual cycles.                                                                                                                 Our thoughts dangled by who the power of bullet might choose.


and yet our journey continues.


Our farms filled with landmines.

Our land, excavated.

And our light, the brightest star on the darkest sky.


So, wear darkness outside to shine from the inside.

For ,our story shall not be sold to put shame on our continent across the globe.

Not like this when our brothers and sisters are still in refugee camps, slaved abroad and traded on coasts


We are tears of the sun.

Our spirits, our limits beyond skylines.

Our bodies, our canvas   to merge illustrations of our timeline,

our earlobes, stretched to tunnel histories echoes of our futures future.

With our imaginations we shall recite hopes to our nearly dead sutras.

Our mission shall remain our quest.


For we hold revolution in our clanged fists, a purpose of open hands worth humility to serve.

Our children shall name themselves.

From generation to generation and society shall never exist in our nothingness.


Today, a day for a slave ends.

The strength of hammering rocks shall be consumed by paintings and sketches , crafts and dances, cameras and snaps, pens and pads.

The rain on our deserted landscapes shall descend.

And from this here point, we shall not look back.

And we shall call upon names of our mothers and fathers.