Verily is not a deceit,
This visional sight.
To my curious eyes.
If but this pen,
Capsized in folly depth,
In silence would have,
This be said thus:
These hovering birds,
On our looped tent,
Aim much than rescue.
Not this for free!
And the whired spear,
Made from else not,
Than from the feeder.
The hostiles are aiders.
From whom got we,
Astrayed in jungle,
Now our navigator.
Not these for free! ! !
16th May 2014.
11: 05 P.m
Esie, Kwara state.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Work on the sanity part, but definitely some good wordplay. Is English not your native tongue? Read my poems for a change of pace... Abstract, urban idealism.