I
shall we dance the dance of one leg up
in the groove of this seeming merriment here?
lewis, these rhythms are the rumbles of friendly adversaries
they beat the skins of drums into foxy sweetness
how they beat the skins of drums to tear and to tears…
these strings are strummed with vipers’ plectrums…pure craftiness
melding the howling bass of hyenas and the hooting treble of owls…
shall we not dance the dance of one leg up
in the waves of this seeming merriment of the rhythms here?
perhaps, we would save ourselves a leg and a limping
from these rhythmical mines orchestrated to lame us…
II
shall we clad our legs in boots of iron?
for our sturdy-steady stand on these slippery paths
lewis, I must tell you, these paths are slippery
they slip giants careless treads in boots of fur…
they slipped ignorant akanni…and he kissed death…
these paths have widowed adunni…
these paths are ruthless carnivores…unsatisfied gourmands!
shall we not clad our legs in boots of iron?
for our sturdy-steady stand in these miry paths
perhaps, we would scale antecedents’ flaws and failures
and leave remarkable footprints for hopeful feet of posterity…
III
shall we rent leaves of deafness for stillness of storms?
and find tranquil silence for our troubled ears
lewis, these are not onomatopoeias of fireworks, for today we mourn
these are whistles of missiles, booms of bombs…shells of darkness
and doom
these storms are not festive raucity, they are tidal wails of turmoils
shall we not rent leaves of deafness for stillness of storms?
and find soothing springs of inner rhythms for our troubled ears
perhaps, we would tell, under milky spills, folktales again
and drain the dreads in the hearts of our innocent children.
IV
shall we undo the muteness of our mouths?
for how shall we speak the writings of our grief if…?
lewis, our golden silence has brought us no gold
we have endured…we still endure silver and bronze of pains
our writings are relics of fame…silenced existence…
shall we not undo the muteness of our mouths?
for how shall our arts bring the index of change in mutes?
perhaps, we would win beauty again for our worn fates
and crown our feather pens as mightier than the sword indeed!
