The mountain land shook.
From the rift of the valley, of blood sourced a brook;
That day, clouds melted from the monstrous flames,
With thick smoke, the sky darkened even with lethal fumes.
Wild battle cries tore and rent the air,
Fathers and sons in the front lines sort after the lion’s lair.
The host or the guest, who at last would fare?
A forest of spears, arrows and riffles shadowed the sun,
The east and west winds at noon scented with powder of gun.
Banging machetes countered jagged blades,
Targeting hearts and throats, warriors hacked and slide;
Opponents’ seasoned moves stirred violently the murderers techniques rent the wind,
The tear and wear of bones and flesh soaked with bloody sweat stained tree barks.
Slander, anger and murderous intents intensified between combative hands,
Flowers snapped, as contenders struggled, dust rose and earth permeated with cracks;
Locked in common place war, antagonists to shameful things bent their backs.
Driven to limits of regrettable desperation,
What meditative force could save the sorry situation from oblivion?
At Kĩambaa church, fire was what devoured asylum seekers,
Driven and constantly stalked from contentious borders
The fleeing guests, too weary, were overtaken from the rear.
Now huddled and besieged in an unsecured camp,
Men’s heart-breaking roars, from the lofty flames, shook the frontier;
Scents of roasting corpses lingered in the vicinity of the camp
The beastly massacre, with distress, churned provinces and the state,
With heavens mandate, could not noble council of elders avert the sad fate?