The infinite seasons have aged,
The seasons of harvest,
Harvest of toils,
Broken fingers and withered hands,
Bruised heels, buried bones
And torn backs.
The vulture is magnanimous,
He and his legion are back,
To take from the carcass of beggars,
They plunged,
Reaping like starved lions.
Like a dove, the vulture is gentle,
Fouls the air,
messes up everywhere he steps in,
Rapes innocence,
Her harvest and her pride,
Nigeria moans in silent tears.
Damned to servitude to bloated vultures,
Shall your sorrowful tears flow down like ocean,
For these wicked creatures?