I guess I'll let my soul

burn like surrended paper in the fire,

the furnace of life,

fries me with its daily frustrations

day by day, I see my possibilities,

baked to ashes by the ovens

of suffering

even my spirit sings a dirge of terror,

I feel like I'm wearing a piranha jacket

my feet are sore,

also frying in the oil of misery

Hunger, the grim, graffiti,

the exact drawing of my face

and the exact sculpture of my being,

the impoverished trigger is pulled

and my family is shot down by the bullets of starvation

the penny drought is the least of my problems

now, death seems imminent.

                                                By Kakraba Afful