Here, fine feet fade like fireworks
shining inn shards.
With white pick-ups
they have picked up our white dreams.
they have plucked off the stars from our future sky.
the cry of their kalashikovs is our killing cry.
when the future is forked out of the present,
where shall be our destination?
when the moonbecomes a local lamp
with a drilled bottom and leaking oil,
which light will guide night's eyes?
Chibok has lost her chickens to men,
whose everyday is a Christmas day;
and their Christmas day is a chaos day
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