And a woman who held a child
In the crook of her thin arms
Cried and said:
Speak to us about life.
And he resignedly said:
Life is not fair,
But ragged with hate and bitterness.
Life is not innocent,
But shades of white and black
Lost to the call of darkness.

The darkness rippling over the plain
Unveils the wickedness of the beyond.
The tempest that has not grown still
Reveals the wickedness of the earth.
And the violent act of mankind
Shows us the absence of treasures lost.

Where is that beautiful light
That is brighter than the sun or moon?
Have you found that faith
That cures the infirmities of fear?
For life is not fair,
But full of birds of death.
And if man does not find that light
Of justice, virtues, love and truth,
Then life will crumble and waste away
Until the only light we know is darkness.

©Okunola Peace.


  1. Always delivers well cooked lines. I felt the pains behind every words.

    Keep penning.

    1. You're right.
      A writer is sensitive when he discerns the sensation of mankind and let his pen flow with it.