Murderous hand of our Promising Haven
Godwin Akinyele
Before we were finally killed,
We completed a race for life.
We saw a shadow, a shadow of death
Whose claws terrifying and uninviting
We saw a road, safe it appeared and to refuge led
After a long exhausting and laborious walk
Soon, it was haven at last, we thought
Resounding sighs of relief, safe at last!
So thought the escapees.
The outer surface whitewashed and inviting
We once saw a shadow, a death’s shadow
We now see our death, caressing with claws
Claws once fared awaited us in haven so-called.
Are we dead?
Yes, like a walking dead!
For what’s is life,
When liberty is tenuous?
Or what’s living,
Where destinies are killed?
What is food,
When like fowl we’re fed in the pen of dependence and hopelessness?
Being groomed until our days of usefulness are gone.
When families are set apart
And able fellows are disabled
When educated and skilful are silenced
And innocents are housed in open prisons
And liberty of the guiltless confiscated
What’s life if breath’s without hope?
I behold the wailings
At the cemetery of destinies,
Where bright futures abruptly turn dismal
Where refuge seekers are turned to their deaths
And I ask,
Does anyone care?
As the clock’s hands ticks to our twilight
Then to our night,
And to our expiry;
When our days of usefulness are over?
Something’s crying
The yearning ceaselessly immutable
Like thirsty throat cherishes nothing but water
The treasures, the virtues, the skills
In our bellies swells and overt
Yet like protruding but painful kwashiorkor
Our bellies full but with malnourished talents
We look full? Nay, we’re fooled
Into thinking our days of usefulness are intact
That the hands of the clock are halted
Even as the span of our usefulness expires.
The bones of our destinies
Dead, buried, stunk and dried
Yes, like hopeful saints await resurrection
The day our liberty restores
When the owners of our dangerous refuge remember,
That we too like all aspire to grow
Until then, we’re all dead!
Until there emerges our saviour
Who feels the depth of our wound, our deadness
Who empathizes the pains of our born and unborn,
Before the days of our usefulness are all gone.
Until then, we are dead
Until then, yes interned
With our destinies in the palm of our refuge.
We completed a race for life.
We saw a shadow, a shadow of death
Whose claws terrifying and uninviting
We saw a road, safe it appeared and to refuge led
After a long exhausting and laborious walk
Soon, it was haven at last, we thought
Resounding sighs of relief, safe at last!
So thought the escapees.
The outer surface whitewashed and inviting
We once saw a shadow, a death’s shadow
We now see our death, caressing with claws
Claws once fared awaited us in haven so-called.
Are we dead?
Yes, like a walking dead!
For what’s is life,
When liberty is tenuous?
Or what’s living,
Where destinies are killed?
What is food,
When like fowl we’re fed in the pen of dependence and hopelessness?
Being groomed until our days of usefulness are gone.
When families are set apart
And able fellows are disabled
When educated and skilful are silenced
And innocents are housed in open prisons
And liberty of the guiltless confiscated
What’s life if breath’s without hope?
I behold the wailings
At the cemetery of destinies,
Where bright futures abruptly turn dismal
Where refuge seekers are turned to their deaths
And I ask,
Does anyone care?
As the clock’s hands ticks to our twilight
Then to our night,
And to our expiry;
When our days of usefulness are over?
Something’s crying
The yearning ceaselessly immutable
Like thirsty throat cherishes nothing but water
The treasures, the virtues, the skills
In our bellies swells and overt
Yet like protruding but painful kwashiorkor
Our bellies full but with malnourished talents
We look full? Nay, we’re fooled
Into thinking our days of usefulness are intact
That the hands of the clock are halted
Even as the span of our usefulness expires.
The bones of our destinies
Dead, buried, stunk and dried
Yes, like hopeful saints await resurrection
The day our liberty restores
When the owners of our dangerous refuge remember,
That we too like all aspire to grow
Until then, we’re all dead!
Until there emerges our saviour
Who feels the depth of our wound, our deadness
Who empathizes the pains of our born and unborn,
Before the days of our usefulness are all gone.
Until then, we are dead
Until then, yes interned
With our destinies in the palm of our refuge.
The poet Godwin Akinyele is a Nigerian based in the United Kingdom. Godwin writes across genres of poetry, prose and drama. He is also a gospel writer. Godwin is the author of the "Lucifer’s Utmost Strategy". He’s a law (LLB) graduate of the University of London and a qualified level 7 postgraduate-trained paralegal. Godwin is currently an advisor at Citizens Advice Bureau (CAB). He’s a passionate writer, speaker, preacher and an advocate for refugees and asylum seekers. This is reflected in the fact that he hosted the Refugees Week nation-wide (Wales) in 2020 (via zoom), in which over 100 attendees including Members of Senedd were in attendance. Godwin has won several awards including High Sheriff of Clwyd Award for his great services to the community. Godwin is Married to Victoria and blessed with kids.
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