By Akeem Lasisi
Let us roll out the Westerly wind
To see if the pines of the East would dance with glee;
Roll out Monsoon drums
For the beady feet of visiting gods.
The sky is tired
Of thunder’s monotone
Earth weary,
Of threadbare tunes of recycled larks.
To the conservative, morning can only come after its noon and night
But I belong to the caste of alternative thinkers
Seeking a new dawn in the midst of dusk,
A bold sun in a baffled night.
This eve of my flight,
This flight of my eve
I whet my dream
On a stone of hope
The lagoon was once a lake
Lake itself, a puddle
Until it amassed a fame undying
From little, little drops of angels’ tears.
The god is wise, the god is wise
Let the night cry the god is wise!
He who knew the trick of undying, stored its baritone voice,
In a roaring disc of immortal thunder.
The god is wise, the god is smart
For where are the traces of the yester buffalo
Which trod the Sheddam meadow with feet of steel,
Wreaked primordial havocs on the martyr-red grass?
His sense was might
Reasoning, his phobia
The only tune in his fiery flute
A hanging participle of instant death.
