By Ridwan Bello, Kaduna [Nigeria]
Lying alone under that sick
Silent tree, awaiting his eve rose
To who shall pass by him without
Saying hello for old time’s sake.
From afar one could easily sight
His chaplet around his neck, covered
With green rag about his chest, right
Down to his knees, spreading up hand
Seem to wave the sky in a hollow space
Of one`s glance.
He holds onto a calabash to decide
Heavens fate in him, of this day pass
Saint`s if the sons of Max turns blind
Before an eye on young fit face
Standing, kneeling, setting, lying down.
Perhaps has no better chance to express
How grief is to man in his lonely thoughts
Beside that market tree.
Who shall give Jove back his blood?
He cries, Oo! Please give Jove back
His blood and flash, he cries, till the
Last sound revote’s not to rhyme,
He sighs and sigh hmm, hmm, ones more
He chant, who shall give Jove back his blood.
For here I stand, from death aroused
To have back my blood and flash.
©Ridwan Bello, Kaduna, Nigeria