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Sonny .O. Azeez
Donít go home, Iris;
Thereís no longer a scene to be cherished.
All that is left is a burnt-out landscape,
Whose terror cannot be escaped.
The trees you grew are now a charred remain.
Earth was scorched away in her pains.
The stable is now a skeleton of itself.
A ramshackle of furry, charcoals are all that are left
Remember the merry berries you grew?
Those that inspired the pictures you drew?
Their ashes have been scattered to the wind,
An occasional speck or two are what you will find.
Shards of broken glasses tile the threshold.
The life in the hearth has gone cold.
Maggots waddle amidst your treasures,
The smell of rot and decay gives them the utmost pleasure.
Seven houses on a hill,
Yet none stand still.
Your eyes will be sore by all that is left to see.
The tears will prickle your eyes and flow like the sea.
All your labours and pains
Was gone with the rain
The moment the black boots splashed through the mud
And the flowers folded their buds.
Donít go home, Iris.
Nothing there is the same,
All that remains is just a name,
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