The flimsy mask
of sovereignty
unravels in the desert sand
The border posts and sentry gates
designed to imprison
the poor and the innocent
mean nothing in a season of pestilence

At the presidential palace in Mali
vagabond soldiers
Came to play their video games
and all came tumbling down

those who curse their parents
will always perish
those who invite hyenas to dinner
will always be the main course

And so the feasting is here
for all who do not build

And now the grand carnival
is the drunken show in town

Follow the tears
in the dust tracks
along the path of armoured cars
Decipher the strange inscriptions
all camouflaged
in the fumes that they expel
glistening with the branded
labels of the infidels

They bring no clean water
for those who thirst
They bring no healing
hand for the sick

They bring no food
for those who hunger
They bring no light
for the blind

for you who feast
on destruction
for you who worship
in the name of AK47 & Kalashnikov
know that every brick unhinged
in the Sahelean shifting sand
will be the chain around your neck
to the hell reserved for tyrants

For all the blessed
who have gone before

For all those in modesty
who will follow

For all the saints
who stand among the sinners

For all those mindful
in wisdom of the strident path

For all in piety
knowing the limits of their exaltation

For all the simple things
bequeathed in abundance

Timbuktu is a far place
the beacon that will bloom again
in the rock of faith

©Ishaq Imruh Bakari

History does not
repeat itself it hangs
Around the neck
like a stone or a talisman…