By The Winds
Among the winds I was born,
ferociously piercing deep my nostrils
first, so hard I cried, for it hurt so bad.
at an age,
where the rest of the world was blurry,
when all that I had was a sense of touch,
for a worm thing around I searched
having found that warm if not two,
I suckle my self to consolation,
a few minutes later I drift into a world,
where tales of flights among clouds,
are told.
By the winds I was natured,
before a day's touch down,
at twilight, to osculate the dawn,
with a kiss of a silent death,
fierce winds cut deep
a skin of an unclothed torso
amble along steep escarpments
a hoe hoist over a bruised scapular,
frigid toes bath in showers of dew,
I cut through a fog so thick,
so thick I can't see my face.
Everyday is a brand new day,
Unfolding with a new song whether,
chirps of weavers of feathers,
cries of a newly born baby,
crows of a juvenile rooster,
or maybe woes of a sombre heart.
For as the sun rises far from the east,
it's mighty rays seen as far as the west,
mists retreat in sight of it's splendour
caressing a rigid cloth less back,
with waves of warmth worth,
thwarting tears once frozen,
into a stream flow.
There nonchalantly tear stained I stand,
in embrace of the warm
behold how something so sweet,
turns out so bitter, "ekuba omunaku"
scorching the bare,
with the fiercest of the wraths of hell,
over the emptiest of stomachs
I ponder, over how far long it is
for the sun to come to rest,
far in the west for me to crawl,
back my nest, lay down my spine,
have something to ingest
and set my head down to rest.
No matter where you are, where I am,
wherever I or you may be
rhere or right over there,
you and I see the sun and the moon,
every dusk is a brand new night,
where a new song may become old,
and those of the old become new
owls hoot synchronous with wolf howls
all that slithers crawls into a roll,
night flames fade off for demise,
"Otulo tetumanya aliyi ra nnyina."
november (the black poet)
*tales of grandpa*
©2023
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I am humbled you found pleasure in writing back.