A land of old.
Made out of gold.
Its sheer uniqueness unshared.
Inhabitants dwell in darkness.
Light seen but unrealised.
Hope dashed upon smartness.
Smartness filled with mischief.
Mischief from the thief.

The land of gold comes​ from a source.
The source being the cause.
The cause is the thief.
The thief is a vessel.
Where we must hustle.
To survive.

I see people talking about this land.
Its too pure as if it was made out of a creators hand.
The world sees this.
But close their eyes wit a hiss.
The rising sun is pregnant.
The unborn is dominant.
I fill the pressure now.
The measure is low.
The inhabitants are angry.
To perceive the smell of the thief.
The wait patiently for a new chief.

A chief is born.
He came and his gone.
Now our thoughts are thrown to prison.
Where our leader is shone.
The hopes of our children are to reason.
Reason out the mystery of dawn.
The dawn is still approaching.
I can fill the spirit even though its graduating.
Graduating into a nation.
The nation the thief wont like to mention.
The nation is not a fiction.
It is BIAFRA.
by Egwu Collins