The urge to write grips
my mind like an araldite,
to write about the anguish inflicted
by the claws of a country that wants
your name festooning obituary posters,
that wants to bereave your canary of songs.
the sight of these on memory’s board
is a needle in the eye of muse.
The smell of these in the kitchen of
thought, ferries muse miles away
from the skull of a patriotic poet,
who knows tomorrow, his poems
might be turned to black mambas
striking him hard, like hammers on rods
in a land, where thrones are preserved for tyrants.