We are the new gods seeing our own future,
we know the rhythm of the season of our songs,
we savour the flavours of our own greatness;
pushing the deep blue sea to the wall of shame.
Behind some of our words, tears drop; love comes.
We can look the face of the sun at noon,
fighting against odds to keep up sanity among
us; our stories told by all but untold to all.
If sorrow is seen in the verses of our land as
its blood cry in the shackles of a dying nation,
the gods are not to blame of our misfortunes.
We are our own gods; we are the new gods,
we must not allow the fate of a sinking child to
be buried in the arms of a wandering mother;
rather, we live today to live tomorrow after death-
under the shredded table of a buttered history.
We can not cast casket at the market place
whilst we watch the children watch awkwardly.
We are our own tomorrow, our own song to sing,
what we sing of is what we are to the eyes of men.
Don't poke your fingers in the hive of a crooked destiny when you own your fate to yourself.
You are your own prophet, I am my own seer,
we are our own new gods proclaiming tomorrow.
Let our voice be voiced in the mellowing flourish
of the coasting stream of nature.
Like a slab flabby mouth speaking,
take position now not those planted by your
fathers, they know not the testament in our eyes.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
From a pen refusing frustration