Poetry

ECHOES OF RUFOUS NIGHTINGALE – By World Barnabas

Written by Bada Yusuf Amoo

Do you remember those times?

When gateway of memories marries the cloudy storm

When death is pleasurable than living blood

And tears is tastier than coconut sugar

Do you remember the toss of wind?

That passes through the desert dream

I want to climb high, but feet fray fiery furrows

It’s my joy to smile jars of strength, but moon mourns the welkin

Plumes of honor burnt along the terrace of naked streets

Broken china of hope on slippery lines of pleasant dreams.

Inclement rain drenched the last costly attires

And sun refuses to minister on pulpit of sensation

Even the erected house of refuge crumbled unnoticeably

Solitary grave is enviable than this beautiful journey

For I will rather play with rotten bones than this healthy flesh

It is not in our uttermost aim to twist hands moving on dialect

But timing is useless in the underneath darkness of musing mind

It is not our agendum to break the lens of binoculars

But even the beggars-blind know the topography of missing map.

 

Let light breaks through the thick wall of deceitfulness

This is our surviving meals but why are you hiding it from us?

You can’t tell me to keep quiet when I still have my tongue

I don’t know why they are hailing you with so many sirens

When there are noticeable potholes of disarray on this land

How can our freedoms lie in these protruding belliesof few?

When there are critical jiggers that can painstakingly dig to the emetic

It is better to drink from well of awareness than tap of vagueness

The coming of our peace is the timeless rotation of the second coming.

 

Let the trumpet of war be blown on this rocky foundation

At the end of every fight there is a new partitioning principle

Is this how our children will also fetch water into perforated drum?

When their mates will be controlling the movement of the wind

This soiled flag can still billows the breeze regardless of garment of servitude

Even if we go to the moon, the flame of our stigma will pollute the space

I will rather sleep on this stony pillow to conceive the distance revelation

For we can only divert the flow of waters; we can’t stop its real essence.

About the author

Bada Yusuf Amoo