That bang that bereft,
Our peaceful night,
Of darkly, cloudy, dewy plight,
Tougher like thunder,
In destructive asunder,
Delusion in submission,
Confusion in desperation,
With communal assuage,
Of awakened sacrilege.
Blood everywhere so fresh.
Scattered abroad, human flesh,
Mingled with iron-sheet and sand.
Who shall cleanse this land,
Of a soil soaked with human blood.
Gboa!
Was that sound,
That disrupted the birds flight,
To its destined nest.
Mother goose atop a Baobab tree,
Fruitlessly gazing for,
The coming home of gone away son.
Iron bird!
That killed our beloved,
Non can truly explain,
What inflicted your brain.
Gboa!
Was the awful sound,
that set bell-view's bird a-flamed,
With a thunderous bang,
Nose diving into the earth,
Scattering abroad its bowel,
In the wake of dry season to berth.
Lisa- Igbore shall never forget,
The fire that sprang,
From beneath her soil,
Where the iron bird fell,
Nor the windy yell,
That blew the flame to coil,
That fire! that cremated our beloved,
Gboa!
That sound in a rush,
Nigerian's will never forget,
Nineteen hundred countrymen,
Lost seven days before Halloween.
Nigerians will never forget,
That same eve, sadly,
The passing on of our first lady,
Sixty two days to Christ's nativity,
Gboa!
Was that sound ,
That short-lived our happiness,
And placed the bird of passage,
Berthing on our hearts in sadness.
Like a sudden black spot,
On an immaculate cloth,
To remain permanently stained,
unable to ever be erased,
Our solemn night,
of dark despair.