When the sun comes back, how shall he find Yasin?
The sun shone for his skin; we all know it.
It glistened, and Yasin agreed, never squinting at the sight of his sun
What shall we tell the sun about what we did to Yasin?
How shall we explain spraying bullets to fight invisible things?
Who will stand and speak for the grease on the bullets and the people that made it?
Will we point fingers as the sun scorches the earth in his search for Yasin? How can we tell the sun that his son is gone?
Who will survive his fiery rage?
Who will tell him what happened at 7p.m, when he went to sleep with him in his sight?
How shall we atone before the vengeful burns finish us all? Shall we wipe the tears of his Mother and Father?
Shall we stomp our feet and demand justice?
Shall we carry placards and hope the sun stands still after 6:59p.m?
Can we ask for mercy from a sun we have deprived?
Nyokabi's Poetry 