Biafran Strong

How many times will you shoot me
To find out I cannot die?
How many times will you set me ablaze
To find out I cannot burn?

Oh Nigeria, a prison to them that seek to be free;
A gated nightmare to them that dream dreams;
Your near destiny down in the dust of doom.
For many years have I sought from you separate,
But you seek me to kill, my children to destroy.

Alas, Nigeria....your name as a horror accursed of gods!
In the womb you eat the unborn and starve their mothers to death,
As politicians freely steal yet hone your sword to slaughter
Those who seek forever to be free!
As wine you drink the blood of your young,
As meet their flesh you eat and boast,
Many of them on exile to live but again.

I fear not your guns nor the soldiers who wield them,
Dead to conscience as a loss to humanity,
They terrorize by nights and vandalize by mornings;
They shoot and kill those not quite so strong,
But in a battle field in shame they fall....

Your sword driven inside of me, my soul to eviscerate,
Yet whole I am, strong I stand and move;
A blossoming tree, rooted in ancient waters,
From whose tongue drips morning dews still.

I am as the force of seven seas,
Yet in gentle ripples into tributaries they break,
To water dry lands and dead bones give life,
Flowing through their ridges and slithering by their cracks.

I am like a mother hen,
Who scratches the ground for grains to feed her young.
Her crackles her voice her bond with her chicks;
Under the shadow of her wrings her chicks she protects.

I am Biafra.....the hope of tomorrow,
The land of the rising sun,
A half yellow moon yet brighter than a full moon;
On and on I shall contend till all things create anew.

How many times will you shoot me
To find out I cannot die?
How many times will you set me ablaze
To find out I cannot burn?