The Prophets

Fidelis Eze


 
From the cold comes their songs
Singing loud for the deafs
Slated for destruction by God
Men clean for the gold
At they table of heaven dine
With the signs, the magic for wealth
As the leave their captives no health
And their sickness worse than their yesterday's
Dead for the shoal when it evaporates
Heavy with their loots to show at home

Behind their agents swim about
In their saving boat
Singing the song of the masters
The false net catchers
Salvation on the sale
Found in their sizes and gardens
As milk and honey their land flows
Example of Gods own people
With no dine for the sick souls
But great blessings in poverty

When their silver melts
They allow not to float
But the lending voices of the cohorts
Dig up wrongs that infect sinners
And pour cooling water of safety
That soothes the perishing poor
As, again, their labour flow into homes
Of prophets dear and blessed by God
Brittle stars with serpent eyes on the society
Digging on ignorance of polity
With sacred flagrancy and figurancy.

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