As the year’s fires burn to embers
Calendars draw to the months of ember.
Chaos stalks the days that fall,
In the ambush of all hallows and the year’s pall.
Tis the season for terror and mayhem,
Tis the time for murder by young men.
Lie in bed till morning.
For when gunshots not tales greet the moon,
Hark the forerunners of mourning.
The ones you seek do not come.
Who will dress them in myrrh,
And bring their widows gold?
Who will rain them with tears,
And see that their young grow old?
The ones you seek judge their lives too weighty for you,
So go home another way,
Young men seek to rob you.
Take another way.
The young men lie in wait for you.
Chibundu Onuzo (c) 2012