A Nation in Labour

The Republic is in labour,
pacing the political ward,
cursing the colonial midwife
for telling her to push.
Her head is spinning,
vision blurred
mind inside out.
She drinks a cup of counterfeit morality
& blubbers a prayer of hope
for the stillborn baby.
The Republic is a headless chicken
with a body that can only flip
& flap in labour.
She curses the future
for coming too soon,
clings to a grandfather clock
that’s out of tune,
hoping it’ll correct a future
that’s gone askew.

Link to the Italian translation

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