Poetry

May 9, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

By

Bismark Amoah

 

 

Fall of Mumbai

 

 

hail the great Mumbai

the country’s chronic tree

the only breath of all people

 

mumbai was the greatest among

among all other cities

that only existed in our psyche

but never lasted for long.

 

Mumbai was the perfect epitome of peace

Mumbai was every envious enemy’s desire

But Mumbai once stood fortified

fortified within a fortnight

 

once came a chronologically profound prophesy

that sprung from the ores

of the deepest depth.

watch, be thou warned

you souls of of the great Mumbai

lest you sublime.

You shall rise and fall.

Fall within thy prime

and never to rise again.

 

But the great Mumbai trust too much

and Mumbai trusted all friends

out of her trust

her many friends destroyed her.

 

Who are the friends of the great Mumbai?

They are those refugees we saved,

the allies we loved before time,

the fragile families we fed,

the non-entities we protected.

 

where are the friends of the great Mumbai?

The friends of the great Mumbai

crawled to the city

and left us on wheel.

 

they conspired their secret scheme

behind the scene and stabbed

the great Mumbai in her hollow heart.

 

where is the great Mumbai?

the memories of the great Mumbai

were the debris the wind

blew slowly and far away.

the great Mumbai had no good friend

to vouch for survival.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

my poem your poem

 

 

this is my poem

this is also your poem

it’s about us

it tells our story

it reveals our legacy

and condemns our fallacy.

 

this poem was meaningless

but meaningful in my mind.

it’s like the tale

that never fades.

this poem never fails

to reveal our fates

 

this poem is about mother Africa

it concerns our continent

this poem is a satire

burnt in the ores of fire

 

this poem was told

to yesterday, today and tomorrows generation

 

this poem is like the black ship

I saw yesterday

sailing shabbily across the sea

with a deteriorating smile

 

this poem shall reveal yesterday’s struggle

the struggle by our forefathers

those priced out of their conscience.

considering their wrinkles

they were alive from ancient time

who never did a single smuggle.

 

this poem is not meant for me

it’s not meant for you only.

it’s not meant to be read

it’s not meant to be sung

it was not written for this age

the age of corrupt men

 

this poem reveals

the love of Africa

that goes beyond

the Africa horizon.

 

this poem shall create rage

that can never be tamed

in my condemn cage

 

this poem is you and I

and all black people

who love Africa.

Africa is none but you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The black lyrics

 

 

I am the mother Africa.

I possess every wealth

but I lack all things.

I am called the wealthiest slave.

For little do I reason

little did I know my exploits

this was the alpha of thy pain.

My son;

heed to my call

for thy enemy dwells with thee.

Slowly it signaled

like the sounds at the stream.

They crawled to me

with message of bliss

preaching peace like pagans

that soothe thee to sleep

and drained me of my dream.

Africa dropped all her wares

into that white basket

the perfect epitome of diabolism

that promised paradigm

in reverse order of priority.

Catastrophe wrapped her arm

over the land I inherited

and left thee to nothingness.

Mother Africa wept

like never before.

The spirit of Africa

faints to the grave

when I blindly traded all

my precious pride for pleasure.

I cried for help

but the gods answered not.

My kings and queens,

princes and princesses,

dignitaries in a foreign land

with no sense of dignity.

A place, where time ceases,

a place of no return,

a place where my kings become

a mere slave to commoners.

where Negroes are tortured

and tormented like termites.

They call it “home”

Negroes call it “lion’s den”.

where the black man struggled

to become emaciated and primarily

drenched to a state of hopelessness.

There, where we were kept abase

and bound in chains,

yet we were responsible slaves

who toiled all day

for thy cruel Machiavellian master.

and here I am;

an empty and dirty being

with filthy and lengthy speech.

Till we fought for freedom

from our feeble foes

until we voiced out

and said “yes we can”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bismark Amoah

My name is Bismark Amoah, and I am from Ghana. I am a student from the University of Cape Coast, 22 years of age, and have a strong passion for poems and words that rhyme.

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