Roused in the heart of night
I sit and stare
Boiling in the rhythm of thought
On this road,
Beauty flies by and by
Pain flies by and by
Hope dashed against stones
Story meshed upon stories
Under the gaze of sun,
The throngs aligned on a longish axis
As if money is doled out
To assuage the flared-up sac
There, mopping their perspiring brows
Some pressed in bladder,
Some pressed in the sac
To give ears to the callings
Of the hawkers spicy, relished rice
When the day piggyback its tasty honey,
They fed fat till they ran out of money
The world is there at their feet
Yet, they are sit-tight patriot.
Skinny beggars of dough
Lackey to their school-pundit, Judas Iscariot
Those who paced them,
On the golden throne-seat
Are now confined to a wheelchair
Waiting, on and on
Painting the street light for gyration
The crabby cries
Where are the beautiful ones?
Are they yet to be fructified?
Are they still nipping at their
Mother’s nourishing coconut buttermilk?
Or probably still contemplating
On their caravan to the world?
The beautiful ones are here
Who play sweet smart in politics?
Who put on the diamond-morning,
Who paint the sky green and white,
Like the Nigeria’s flag?
Who do not give arms to the rustling wind?
Who surrender to the fear of his Maker!
Pix from the Net.