Tade Ipadeola

Pages: 1 2 3 4

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

 


Pages: 1 2 3 4

2 Comments

2 Comments so far ↓
  • david udoinwang says:

    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

  • Chielozona Eze says:

    Beautiful. Man, you restore my faith in poetry as a source of nourishment for the spirit.

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