Foul….. Foul….. Foul…..
The language of the downtrodden patriot;
This, we cry foul
When like a swarm of locust, they descended on us from the mountains;
Invading our privacy and tearing down our proclaimed fountains;
Ripping the clothes off our daughters’ breast,
exposing their cloak of innocence to much adulteration;
Crushing our husbands and sons by the thrusting of metal in flesh;
Making our mothers worse than barren women;
To this, we cry Foul
We screamed foul,
When they impede sacred grounds, desecrating our sacred altars;
Offering us the bitter fruits of our blood to eat, and our wastelands to live in.
When they handed us back our daughters, bruised and naked, with nothing to cover their shame.
We cry foul
We cry foul,
when we had to rebuild our ruins at the expense of our breath, murtering Joshua’s curse;
When in ugly understanding, we argued on the first block to lay towards building our Babel;
When in defiance to hardwork, the building blocks always come falling,
and upon us it did fall;
Crushing our present, and leaving us doubtful of a future to hope for.
And Like death, our ignorance and arrogance killed us.
But the cry must stop for the underlying Voice to be heard
And for our hands to be taught war, and our fingers battle.
Though still, our Being cry foul, cos our hands are yet feeble to man the sword,
And our mouths heavy to let free the voice given to us;
We rise to proclaim our resolve to live on and to make things right.
In the east and to the North, to the South and to the West.
Like the shepherd who gave himself for the safety of his flock, so we rise, determined never again to cry Foul: the language of the downtrodden patriot.