|Sometime in January, Boko Haram terrorists razed a town in|
North East, Nigeria killing a 'woman in labor.' In the words of a
witness, “Half of the baby boy (was) out and she died like this.”
This poem is for the unnamed boy who I called 'X.'
And who hears when we call and comes running?
Who waits up for us and keeps the lamp burning
To show the path home when twilight is dawning?
Who reaches out when we face a chasm yawning?
And swoops us up just before we keel over falling
To our deaths in a fissure that is always gnawing?
The value of x is, for all practical purposes, unresolved;
He’ll for all time be a mystery because he died unnamed,
His spot is uninhabited for he never set foot on this sod.
The death of x is, beyond all reasonable doubt, a shame;
Not he or his Mama deserved that baptism in cold blood,
No one will ever know what x was cut out for or his gain.
The tale of x is, contrary to common belief, an ill weapon
To bludgeon the foe cause he died before he came thence,
We can turn pain to gain and make them pay for our loss.
The value of our x they must be made to feel, is priceless.