I spit…
Sitting down in helpless surrender
My glorious plumage applundered
I watch my captors, predators of all sorts

I spit…
Yes indeed I spit, not on your graves
But upon your grave faces! Infidels
With no respect for womanhood!

I spit…
O! They have taken my children
Unripe as they are, with stumps for breasts
Ready to initiate them into the cult of matrimony

I spit…
I can no longer hide my revulsion, girls
Whose wombs have only shed bloody tears once
Are sold to old men, who invade that novel hymen

I spit…
But now my spittle is mixed with tears,
Who will save my children, seeds of my womb
Feathers of my colourful plumage? Now…

I stare…
Into the horizon, awaiting their fall,
And then I would spit on their graves.