Celebrate Or Cry Poem by sholadoye Dada

The cloud shines gold
The stones smirk
Rivers roaring wild
The birds shrilling hard
It’s my birthday they celebrate
But my mood is grievous.

I am suppose to be great
The forest call me great
Even bare land still call me great
Insiders now know I’m not
I am a bad mother.

I was gaffed to potifer
And fed a teenage of my labour,
Furioso, my oldest children
Brought me to the wilderness
Delivering me from pharaoh,
The trumpet is in the mouth of my bird
But my older children won’t,
They ceased the throat,
Took off the trumpet
And crippled me
I walk with crutches.

Termite started eating my parcel
My runway battered
I was moniker issah
But I could still peek at the sun
Before another lion roared; my old children
Sent me to Babylon
Where the cloud is black,
Where they call slaves tenant

As I sit under the virgin tree
To linger over my ordeal
I raised my voice,
Half-shouting, half-praying
And I hear a response
Half-preaching, half-warning
Copy-pasting a word: youth!

Then, I say aloud
My young children,
They know not my oldest children
To rub spirit with
But a part of the older
And the dust of that form old
How should I hope?
Again, I raised my spirit
To hear a response
Half-wiping, half-listening
But I hear a bell chiming!

My young children playing trumpet,
The old ones, playing flute
Its’ my birthday they celebrate
But my mood is grievous

The young children thrives me
Not even the younger ones
They don’t know the flame they see,
I’m always thatched in their see
And I don’t know what they feel
I am a bad mother.