Fresh blood, refreshed every hour of the day, in scattered communities;
From the mournful laughter of Lafia land to the wailing waters of the Bright of Biafra.
Bewildered men, women and children at the foot of the gleaming Rivers of Blood;
Bloodied and drunk.
Waiting for the next news of killings,
Debating the number of the dead
And going to sleep
Not knowing whether the riders of the pale horse will come calling to their community or a distant one.
Yet they cry to be saved
Or be buried in marked graves if not.
But who is listen their drowning voices?