Tade Ipadeola
II
There is a dappled song of rust
Trembling in the stricken throat
Of silenced guns,
There is a russet song of sorrow
Whimpering
Upon this beachhead of the Middle Passage.
The very soil of the Island hums the song
When the last tourist must have left
Echoing the sorrow of the song in shades
Incandescent and tortured as the memory.
And you can hear this Island lamenting and lost
Haunted like the eyes of scattered children
Seeking shelter in a strange and rattled world
Thrust out at turns by traitors and aliens
my hut’s
by the beehive grove
l love sweet honey
but the bees wont let me be
bee bee bee!
your fangs are a dread to my breed
in the midst of pomp
and merry din
i thirst
in a dry
and
thirsty land
for want of juice
for want of life
sweet honey sweet
bee bee bee!
o that i could
but a lick of your comb
like a man should do- Dav udoinwang
Beautiful. Man, you restore my faith in poetry as a source of nourishment for the spirit.