MUSE OF THE PEN
If at all this pen would cry
Cry it my crimson
Crimson that mother earth cries
Cries that wake morning moons
Moons that turn stars
Stars that begets a new dawn.
And yes it shall
It shall cry on the exacerbation that swords the trembling voice of this pendulum bub we neighbour
About the deserted head of heads.
It must cry my flown away
Away drowning me in the engulfing heat of solitary
Solitary that sails me ashore.
Ashore ashore ashore!
It will cry the crystals in my revelation
Not forgetting the seers and priests in my genesis
All speaking uniformly
Of a legend ever birthed
Of a full moon that spits mercy with its immense beak
Of a healthy white tree
That flips its branches of happiness and freedom.
For many a second a minute an hour a day a week and a month she had me in her little bowels
That silences her fierceness and agility
A very hefty load for her to lift and split away from
Never for once did she had sighed, unburdened
In wails and screams
In the waves of her desperate protests
In the rain of the sun
That wears her like a garment
That sprang out of her goose pimples
Alas heavy moments!
Colourful faces approached
Welcoming the moon to the earth
Welcoming the white flourishing tree
Vowing to be there, through rain and sun
Alas! where they there?
Until she bid me fare bad –
A journey crawling on its path
Alas! No return!
Never did she reveal to me
My standing missions.
And for the wings disappearing from the hall
Like the bird to her mother
Confined with an old grandmother
Whose breast I sucked.
On I strive with loggerheads and cataclysms
Now I make routes in no routes
To swim in my destiny!
© Abdul Ganiu Ajibola Bello. Crying Pen.
857 total views, 4 views today