June 6, 1984,
An austere occasion, Destroyed by wicked minds turned into
darkest of memory
In the wake of day, Came the evil night; The silent screams were never heard,
yet the echoes still cry Oh God, in what
Play do we act;
Grim is our character; our roles and acts seep of tragedy.
The visitors of the Temple of Gold
ran but their paths Blocked by swarthy men and guns
Our sisters’ tears, And our brothers’ blood we must now wipe When the rabid dog: bites the lion’s cub the lion must fight The men talk
the women cry
The heart bleeds and the soul prays for divine inspiration we await.
Article extracted from this publication >> June 2, 1989
