When they were fresh of their mother’s breasts

And no longer wiped their faces with scholarly diapers

They would gather at the brink of normalcy, bidding farewell to deviation

And watch the sun yawn into the clouds and atop trees

Then to the early psalms of the morning creatures, they’d hymn

A song of change, a lullaby for liberation

But the morning would become deaf and the day quiet

For the unmet promises from their leaders campaign suckle from their hopes

But when the sun found respite beneath the umbrella of clouds

And the rain tinkered on the soil of their infancy

They became teenagers—still courting the prospects of change

They’d gather at the casket of their forefather’s hopes

Singing with new tongues an old song

But the sky would roll up and government’s hearing retreat

To watch them sing those strange songs alone

Then from the lying lips of their reluctant heroes will come

A reason to change their song, an excuse to lose the fight

And now, their assemblage is a prayer of full beards and bare breasts;

They now pick at the hope from their infancy

Sitting around the remains of their youth

Their hymns now slurred with age and perseverance

Each word weary from the burden of their sojourn

Still singing an old song—though with old tongues

For they believe they’d be witness to the day

When the sky will brighten at their orchestra

And the morning creatures will share their songs

A day the sun will awaken to lean on the shoulders

Of their hope and truth will be engraved in the lips of their leaders;

A day they’d be glad they never gave up on their country