Where do I call my home?

Where do I lodge my flesh and bones?

Where is the shelter that can shield me

From scorching whips of the blazing eyes of heaven,

From the cruel hands of harmmattan,

The resonant rattling of angry bullets,

Which prick my shivering soul with fear

 Like a chicken beaten by the torrential tears of the sky?

Where I once called home is as desolate as Sodom and Gomorrah,

What hitherto shielded me from the razing storm of life,

Is now a dissolute wilderness,

 Glittering into embers of ruin.

Home is the street, flyovers, caves and uncompleted buildings,

Where I now dwell;

Clapping to the melodious songs of mosquitoes,

Which drink my blood for dinner.

Home is now the tranquil morgue,

Where sleeping souls lodge as servants of death,

Home is now the serene vaults,

Where crowns, sceptres and the retched of the earth,

Are allotted six equal feet in the womb of the earth.

Home is the great beyond where all mortals

Sojourn the everlasting journey of no return,

As death barks at them like a dog,

As they put off mortality to clad in immortality.