On the pulse of my pen
my paper laid naked.
Like a bride waiting for her man
on the night of a mango moon.
My mind in great pains
A woman in labour,
words went abundantly scanty
to push out what I conceived.
So I lock my lids,
to walk on invisible streets;
paths so vacant in my head
but I moved on, fearlessly,
staring at goliathic parallel walls.
A seeker for igniting pictures
that could light up
a candle for my thoughts.
But a tse-tse fly,
the hawk came and snatched my eyes
into the hall of dreams
where inspirations abound.
Every word has a great sound
with a profound eloquent flow,
but dream,
where is my piece?
It was another tease.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem