Tis Their Season

Where young trees shaped like pyramids
are killed
then decorated
then dead trees planted in living rooms
like dead seeds planted in living wombs
soon go toxic
we wonder then why the children are born sick
we fall hard for their lies and tricks
longing for a piece of their rotten American pie
our elders moan
while the young die quick
tis their seasonYoung trees are hewn from their roots
grown to bear no fruits
harvested for yurugu’s pleasure
treasure for a day
then they meet the fire
tis their season we are programmed to admire
bedazzled by the decapitated heads of African orphans
hanging ornamentally from dead trees
we see lights but refuse to see the light
then wonder why our land is blight
as vultures like santa drop from flight
to feed on the souls of our able and might
tis their seasonWhere bells are jingled from coast to coast
and hell is mingled with heavenly hosts
as satan some say santa tightens the reins
around the necks of those we hold dear
baba working two jobs
can’t afford the partridge or the tree
so he buys the pear
here comes satan down the chimney
to replace baba in the night
then we wonder why our village ain’t righttis their season
Where death walks the earth
red with the blood of slain African children
whose flesh adorn dead trees shaped like pyramids
eyeballs dangle from dead limbs twinkle like lights
as choirs go from house to house to sing oh holy nights
our ancestors moan
as African heads are mounted
atop dead trees like pyramid capstones
tis their seasonBut truth be told
tis the season
when nature hibernates
when gods release earth-bound lust
and bury unborn hates
tis the season
for the sun to die in the west
fall into deep slumber
and dream new sons awake
tis the season
where life rests beneath frozen lakes
tis the season
to throw off yearlong burdens and deeply bury
but to the vampires and werewolves it’s twilight
so tis their season to be merry
while we work our fingers to the bones
to keep up with thieves, murderers and Jones
can you hear santa
with his reins around the necks of our dear ones
calling us hoe, hoe, hoes?
tis their season.–Rudwaan is the author of Endangered Speeches and This 2 is Love and architect of ‘The Lions Tale’
(From the book ‘ENDANGERED SPEECHES’ by Rudwaan © all rights)

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