The Eventide I. Running through my mind are those days and moments of joyful night laughter. Where the crickets and others calm us with their party songs Those happy nights of speeches and swift songs of memories poured out by the near to grave into our tender souls. Those nights of rhythmic rhymes that roots on some city of the four legged and kingdoms of falling swords . A harvest of wisdom, that causes the rustication of the eventide kingdom colonized by boredom Those nights of cooked stories steamed from the ikoko of old; Descending from the known lost path of the ancient past, pulling the chain with some parts gone and some safe. A night I call, this night I reckon with. A night that blew the trumpet of a cool ambiance; a night still as fresh as the water from an early spring. That night we sat on the earth, crossed our legs and listened to the carved drops of superstitious rituals, and moral fiction. Our faces glued to him, our story man; who sat on the place so high like a judge passing judgment on us: for we are the criminals of justified crimes; sentenced to the farm of reasoning, soothing fright and enjoyment. He sang proverbs, later he yawned and paused, so we sang our songs too; Ours more full of proverbs than his. So plain but attached: speak, speak and speak, we babbled. Speak till the cock hisses at the morning sun. But our songs died and were disowned. He rose and walked into the shelter; to prepare for what tomorrow will bring. Till tomorrow when the day will be captured by the night; Until another nightfall when the fantasy of the ancient words and songs are praised again II. To the moon you make me sin. For you patch my heart with jealousy. To the stars you add more crimes. For you dump me into the pit of envy. Every night the stars listen to folktales. They gather to listen to their story lord; the silver lord. The moon moves in their mist, telling great folks They never stop listening till morning blows her trumpet. But their folklores are not fantasies; theirs are not boiled, though ancient and fresh. Theirs are the folktales of humanity, the folklores known and done by men in the everyday chapter of life. Theirs are the folklores of faction. The ways of men, the saddened sadness that eats in the human hearts. To the moon, I beg of you, speak my goodness to the stars, and tell not on me the injuries have done to life. But the moon listens not to my words, my pleadings she buries to the cloud. For what I do she tells and what I forsake she speaks of. By Adewumi Benedict Olumide
Posted on: Tue, 08 Jul 2014 11:33:29 +0000
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