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Nigeria: The Unwritten Script
A land where ink runs dry on paper,
Where words bend like heat on a desert's edge,
A story untold, a song unplayed,
A script that trembles in the palm of fate.
No pen could capture the storm in her skies,
Her rivers flood with tales untold,
Her mountains whisper secrets of ancient kings,
Yet every word feels heavy, bound in gold.
Corruption weaves like shadows through the streets,
Invisible, yet felt in every breath,
A hand that feeds, then pulls away,
Leaving only hunger and empty steps.
She wears her history like a royal cloak,
Threadbare, yet grand in its complex grace,
A script no scribe can ever write,
For every truth is masked in a fragile space.
The dance of power, the crash of dreams,
A song of joy and sorrow in one beat,
Her heart is torn by promises broken,
Yet the pulse of hope does not retreat.
No writer, no poet, no voice too loud
Could paint the mosaic of black and white,
For Nigeria is a script unbound,
A language that twists beyond the night.
The ink may smudge, the pages tear,
But in every wound, there’s a story to share,
A country written in dreams and lies,
A script no one could ever revise
