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Osman Abraham Lincoln Writes: Dirge Of Orphans + Biography

Biography

Kings looking for the king whom nature sing. The man is Osman Abraham Lincoln, whose pen flows the Pierian spring. Sprouted as an Iroko tree on the lush land of kumasi - Ashanti, Ghana; the only Kingdom the King sits on the Golden stool from the skies. Osman Abraham Lincoln is a pivotal tool in literati circle, avid poet and prolific writer that write the whole history in four words as Publius Cornelius Tacitus, used only four words for: "They make a wilderness, and call it peace;" in the original Latin.

Osman Abraham Lincoln's ink on the scroll dazzles in poetry, oratory, history, geometry, philosophy, theology, politics, African culture, scientific ideas, play, prose, essay, music composition, literary research; giving clarity of the deepest spirituality with brevity in universality.

He possessed the Wisdom of Antiquity and the unique style of Modernity.




DIRGE OF ORPHANS

My heart beats

Anytime I see the skies turning cloudy by the heats

Sparks lightning in the air

These crazy storms strong enough blow dreams into despair

No legs and waist for the buttocks to sit on a chair

No matter the sunshine the ground gets wet when it rains

Can the grains grow in the drains?

The orphan antelopes in pains

Some trade them as commodities for gains

The fire from the sun burning the tyro brains

But they never ask how these children shelter themselves from the weather

Young birds in sorrowful tweet without feather

The young ones through no fault of their own; the parents in the grave

The unsung rhythm of life's melody that liberate the slave

As chicks brood under their mother wings, these souls shivering in a cave

The children hunger for your hands to save them from a deadly wave

The light must lead them to the fertile land of the brave

Where is the honey for the bee?

Skeletal living beings are the images I see

Just beyond the gates of the orphanage on the sea

Everybody here is an orphan, including me

The Earth weeps when an orphan is at stake

Bake him bread and feed her with cake

A plantain nurtures her suckers for the future sake

In the night the shadows shake

The dawn wake the morning sun to awake

I have a ghost to make

A ghost that sings in solitude for the dust to bury a snake

Where is the honey for the bee?

Skeletal living beings are the images I see

Just beyond the gates of the orphanage on the sea

Everybody here is an orphan, including me

Cloudy smoke filled the air

The skull eaten the hair

Life, is it fair or unfair?

The crab is without a body to sit in a chair

Yet he moves here and there in pair

The crazy storms strong enough blow dreams into despair

But they never ask how these children shelter themselves from the weather

Young birds in sorrowful tweet without a feather

A beautiful skin makes a beautiful leather

A wretched leather will be torn asunder

Who will help the tortoise to climb the ladder?

The wisdom in the air gave the Chinese the gun powder

The young ones through no fault of their own; parents in grave

The unsung rhythm of life's melody that libetate the slave

As chicks brood under her mother wings; these souls shivering in a cave

The man of the home is gone, the child screaming in the pit of a knave

The children hunger for your hands to save them from the deadly wave

The light must lead them to the land of the brave

The empty bellies of the orphans must be fed by your farm

Slaughter them the fat ram

Cover their nakedness with warmth charm

Raise the rooftop above their heads to shelter them from harm

Do not let them be a swamp for mosquitoes but rather river for dam

The lips of lisping babes comes the sweetest psalm

Little monkey in darkest black

The hunter's bullets has measured the life of her mother back to back

Left alone in the jungle to sit in the dark

What is frightening a wall is a crack

In Darfur, Yemen, Syria; the dirge of children mourning their dead

Such strange echoes shaking the skies in dread

Chasing by bombs and tombs and nowhere for the feet to tread

These are the nightmare pages I have ever read

Are we letting them die in starving before giving them the bread?

The eye of the needle is closed for a thread

And anarchy is spread

This is the world we have on this earth to make it a paradise

If there is Heaven, we have not seen with our eyes

So let us not destroy our abode on earth by wars which is not nice

Peradventure when we dies,

And there is heaven, then we have nothing to lose in the skies

Where is the honey for the bee?

Skeletal living beings are the images I see

Just beyond the gates of the orphanage on the sea

Everybody here is an orphan, including me

[Author: Osman Abraham Lincoln - Dawuroo.com]

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