ASHES OF SONS
ASHES OF SONS
By
Ikechukwu Frank
The sky burned red with a mother’s wail,
Land torn asunder, hearts grown frail.
Biafra wept, and the world looked away,
Children swallowed in the fire of day.
My grandmother, strong as the morning sun,
Saw four bright stars snatched, one by one.
Her laughter turned hollow, her arms left bare,
Echoes of footsteps vanished in despair.
She walked through years with a silent cry,
A queen of sorrow, yet she would not die.
Each meal, each prayer, a battle fought,
A life rewritten, her sons now naught.
The market’s hum, the river’s bend,
Every corner whispered lives that end.
But in her eyes, the fire remained,
A testament to love, and strength unchained.
The war took sons, the war took peace,
Left her world fractured, never to cease.
Yet still she rose, though grief would cling,
A mother without sons, yet a lioness in spring.
And we remember, so none forget,
The silent tears, the blood, the sweat.
Biafra’s children, scattered and gone,
But
the heart of a mother forever lives on.
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