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THE LAND OF THE RISING SUN: A POEM FOR BIAFRA

O Igbo arise! O Igbo arise! O Igbo arise!
Let the chains of subjugation be broken, let the yoke of slavery be shattered and let the shackles of servitude fall.
For the voices of your ancestors and your dead are calling. The voices of your slaughtered children wail, scream and screech through the night and they shed whimpering and pitiful tears through the day.
They call for justice and vengeance that their souls may be appeased and that they may find peace and eternal rest.
For they were slaughtered in their millions by the barbarians and infidels and they were butchered like cattle in the sanctity and privacy of their churches and homes.
They cry for Biafra. They cry for the land of the rising sun. They cry for the memory of the fallen and those that stood like men to defend their honor. They cry for the pitiful souls of the chidren yet unborn.
Heed their cry and honor their sacrifice. Forget not the land of the rising sun. Forget not Biafra.
Forget not the slaughtered millions and those that were cut short in the prime of their infancy.

A PICTURE OF LONDON IN WINTER


There is nowhere like Londinium. The heart of the world beating right there before the warmth of an open big red faggot-popping hot log fire.

It burns cosily in the giant old halls which lie behind those ancient walls in the ice cold snow and winds of winter.

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