When Our Roosters Crow Again

For this poem to survive
it had to seek refuge like a refugee
from the venomous viper fumes
of the city I once considered a home ground,
keeping quiet on the night of May 3rd
and the following nights for two weeks.

It stayed quiet but not deaf,
nor blind. Finding itself in the scum-filled
swirling pool of anger, disgusted to tears
by all the lies floating on the stagnant water
of the river I shall not even name,
this poem seeks answers
in the ashes of burnt tribal colonies,
churches, and villages, only to find
red hot burning charcoals.

Must this poem sing only of the things
of exile now,
the state of being an exile waiting
for the homecoming laughter of the children
of my tribesmen
when our roosters crow again from the warmth
of our home?