In the valley where the rivers meet,
Where maize and yams once grew so sweet,
The soil is red, but not with clay
It drinks the blood of lives betrayed.
The wind that swept through Tivland's fields
Now mourns the harvest hatred yields.
Children weep in silent fear,
Mothers clutch what they hold dear.
Night no longer brings just rest
It cloaks the cries of the dispossessed.
Fires rage, and not for light,
But born of grief and tribal spite.
Cattle roam where homes once stood,
Ashes mark what once was good.
Who cast the first, who cast the last?
Each bullet etches deep the past.
But blame, like smoke, just fills the air,
While graves grow wide in cold despair.
O Benue, land of rich and kind,
What peace was lost, what hope confined?
The earth does not choose sides in war,
It holds the dead, the rich, the poor.
Yet still it whispers through the trees:
"Let swords be ploughshares bring back peace."
Let voices rise, not fists or guns.
Let justice shine beneath the sun.
Benue weeps—but must not drown.
Raise her gently. Lay hate down.