On okigbo’s last night
The riffles rattled…
In the troughs of the nation’s left-spheres
I hear the splitting reverberations
Of the tribal wars.
Then on cross fires
One of metaphors, quill feather and ink-jar,
Others of bullet and grenades.
But
When the war ended:
A life had departed with the dark nights,
The quill feather had gone with the early morning storms
The ink-jar was clobbered by the rising sun’s rays.
On okigbo’s last night.
The riffles rattled..
In the troughs of the nation’s left-spheres
I heard the reverberations
Of the clannish wars, splashing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem