Black Blood

In the land where the oil streams like blood,

Where dreams are squashed in a red flood,

There stands a group, pleased areas of strength for and,

Whose voices transcended some unacceptable.

Ken Saro-Wiwa, a name of May,

Driven by his kin in the battle,

For equity, freedom, and poise,

Even with ravenousness and hostility.

With tranquil hearts and unflinching will,

They looked for a future fair despite everything,

In any case, oppression, with an iron hand,

Struck them down on their local land.

Dark blood spilled upon the earth,

A stain of distress, torment, and shortage,

Their voices hushed, bodies hung,

However, from their penance, trust sprung.

For, however, they fell, their soul flew,

Through murmured winds and sad cries,

Their heritage, a signal brilliant,

Directing others in the evening.

Yet at the same time, the oil wells siphon and agitate,

As dark bloodstreams, we begin to learn,

That equity is a far-off dream,

In our current reality where power rules.

However, we recollect the people who tried,

To represent what they minded,

Their dark blood shouts out from the beginning,

Repeating a reality significant.

In the land where the oil streams like blood,

We honour the people who endured the flood,

Their penance won't be to no end,

For their memory will perpetually rule.