This scribe wrestles to write,
The pounding pains of the voiceless
On pulverised petals of pages.
Words goes on like a meandering stream,
As he inks with a pouring heart
To speak for the voiceless.
He writes the silent sorrow,
That speak in their hearts
And the scorched tears,
That sit red in their eyes;
As their dreams turn into dismal darkness
And voices remain
This scribe smites his pen on pages,
With his delicate hand,
For those voices veiled in homes
And squelched in the baray to hush.
He writes of their man-made fate,
That turn them adults before adulthood,
To groom offsprings without a groom
And left to tick away like a time bomb.
Oh shame on the scoffers!
Shame on the sharp knives of ridicule!
This scribe writes without wavering,
Nor will he ever go unvoiced.
He’s the scribe of the voiceless,
Who fights with his pen,
For the dumb to speak through him
Till deaf ears are made to hear.
*(c)? I remain your poet Abie Rachel Ogoh Nyassi