In that soft fresh flesh
There we saw beauty once golden;
The sweet gesture the sky fetch,
Softness and greenness interwoven;
Though we could not tell how far
On seeing the wounded stripes of Biafra.
Our walls knew our names,
Feet with a counted toes;
There our chariots foot the lames;
The creed even an infant knows.
Now, the hunter’s now a murderer
For the wounded stripes of Biafra.
The River bird perceived our stink;
The frogs and mice the cause.
The walls are fallen I think
And humming birds our recourse!-
She too can’t return any longer
To the wounded stripes of Biafra.
And so the stripes are lying there,
Deserted under the scorching sun;
Though the reddened sores I stare
I cannot stop but wonder and yawn
And while the valley grow to hill
And So shall live the Biafra’s will.