My Country

Thompson Emate

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Thompson Emate

Wednesday 21 January 2026

Songs

Songs from our feeble hearts,

Songs about the darkness that has followed us,

We count our losses and name our troubles,

Our hearts sink deeper into the mire.

Songs from our mothers,

Songs about the difficult days,

Songs reflecting their gnawing fears,

They sing and weep,

Offering themselves for their children.

Songs from our fathers,

Songs about the uncertainties that loom ahead,

Songs about the sinister shadows at nightfall and the uncanny sights at daylight,

They sing and sigh,

Weary of seeing their loved ones taken to the abyss of the unknown,

Grief sways on the swings of their hearts.

Songs from the children,

Songs that strengthen the weak,

Songs that tunnel through the pervasive night,

Songs that echo in silent chambers,

Time waits for their footprints,

They are the hares that daringly challenge the odds.

Songs from a grieving land,

Songs from a sorrowful land,

It contours and meanders into the unknown,

Songs that seek new paths,

Songs that search for hidden light,

Songs that journey toward the Divine,

Songs that are rivers of sorrow awaiting the rising sun.

Thompson Emate

Monday 5 January 2026

The Homeless

The homeless are not unskilled.

The homeless are not unlearned.

The homeless are not indolent.

The homeless are not lackluster.

The homeless are not those unready to embrace the dawn.

The homeless are not hesitant to walk into the daylight.

The homeless are not feeble or sleep-drunk.

They are not oblivious to the voice that speaks in the tranquil night.

The homeless are not afraid to journey into the unknown.

They are not uncalled or undesirous of a new beginning.

They are not frail gifted.

They are the unprivileged.

They are those who have faced unfortunate circumstances.

They are the voiceless.

They are armed but unshielded.

They are a dim light waiting to shine.

They are those in the depths of the stygian night.

They are those seeking the stars to illuminate their long night.

Thompson Emate

Sunday 4 January 2026

Ode to January

You come, and we welcome a new beginning.

You arrive, and we celebrate your presence.

There is an outpouring of joy,

And a feast of thanksgiving.

You come and open the door to a cycle of 365 days.

You arrive, and we turn to fresh pages,

Embracing a new way of living,

Counting the days and nights.

There is a door that leads to you,

And we are eager to pass through it.

We embark on a journey,

Though some are called to the beyond before its end.

Your arrival brings awakening for some, They discover new ways to blossom the meadow.

They dispel the pervading shadows,

As you guide their steps, lit by the sunshine of your embrace.

Yet some do not perceive the light you bring.

They stumble and search in the gloom,

Singing songs that are not their own,

Following paths not envisioned by their minds.

Thompson Emate

Sunday 4 January 2026

My Country

Are the odds totally against my country?

Are its leaders trapped in an unyielding quagmire?

Are they inattentive to the voice that speaks when the mind is calm and unruffled?

Do they focus only on the minor issues while neglecting the major ones, or vice versa?

Are they unaware that wearing the crown comes with the burden of sacrifice and servitude?

My country is a book filled with disheartening pages.

As you turn through its leaves, your emotions overflow with sadness and grief,

And you go to bed with a heavy, sunken heart.

My country is the night sky in search of stars,

but they seem imprisoned by unyielding rulers.

My country is a sorrowful woman,

with tearful eyes gazing at her children in threadbare clothes.

My country is a sluggish, murky, and cold river,

obstructed by stubborn deposits.

My country is a painting,

each brushstroke leaving behind stubborn blotches.

My country is a field,

its yields blighted by sudden and strange circumstances.

My country is an ark,

where the confusion within outweighs the chaos outside.

My country is a tourist site,

awakening feelings of melancholy.

My country is daylight struggling to emerge from twilight,

one of the unlisted wonders of the world.

My country is on another 365-day journey,

And I hope that this time it will emerge as the dark horse.

Are the odds totally against my country?

The answer lies in its yield after 365 days.

Are its leaders ensnared in an unyielding quagmire?

That remains a mystery to unravel.

Are they inattentive when the mind is calm?

Perhaps they’re too entangled to notice.

My country is a string of questions seeking answers,

and it is a feeble, crouching lion.

Thompson Emate's Profile

Songs

The Homeless

Ode to January

My Country

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