Flowers of Chibok
There, you had resided in a space
that shielded you from the chaos outside.
As you walked the halls of that mental garden
the desk was your soil,
the book and pen your well-spring.
Caring hands cultivated your being,
grew you in maturity and knowledge
from seeds, to saplings to young flowers,
meant one day to pollinate the continent
with your wisdom.
But now we look in anguish
at your garden burned to ashes.
We decry how religious insanity
snatched you from your roots,
now holds your tired, withered
stem in its clutches.
From Chibok to Lagos,
New York to London,
we search for you and demand your release.
Like farmers with stolen crops we hunt for your thieves,
while setting aside a homecoming patch
where the desk, the book and the pen
can help you grow again.