Listen again to the tale of papa’s goat:
The earth was white before when I was
born in the pen of penury’ brea$t.
Shivering,conventioning, he talked to us.
Dark pregnant of the sky was his rendering
in the clitories of the moon in the night.
In the sand of time before we came,
Papa was a singer with a great tone,
the endless miles of greatness were
nothing to him if it bears fruits of luck.
He spent his leisures in the embrace of
the city that harboured his dreams.
His cattle spoke of tomorrow to come,
His cock pecked on honesty of the
land because Nkporo was nearer nile.
Strive and argument of the moon and the
stars were the happiness in eyes.
Torment were but a tale of the wicked.
The time passed through the sand in
an hourglass antiquated chambers of
a soulful rhythms, bygotting memories.
Papa died with a tale in his throat which
he never let go to our ears to behold.
But we inhaled love of his telling eyes.
Our feet trembles with tenderness,
here once stood our homes under the
bridge that crossed the sky stomach,
here once stood the Shrine of papa
as seen in his dying flashed eyes-
but yesterday tells of today in fear.
We can now allow the sand to talk
us into finding our root; a home that
understand and perceive our fragrances
We hold Dreams in our embraces
remembering what fate has spoken
about us before we were born here.
�John Chizoba Vincent