They chopped our hands off
Leaving us no fist to throw
We sit, vision-sick, draping the sun with tears
Waiting for village chiefs to voice our ache
Though they've connived and delivered
Their lips to them who eat our hearts out
So when the nation leaps into wandering
There is no chief's lip to straighten her path
Just this volunteer guide with running mouth
His lips won't stop, as he maps a tongue-agenda
Breaking their silence again, again, and again
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nice poem. the political tone is remarkable.
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