Sons Of The Bull Poem by Mosi Mustapha Gomina

In swift recoil from tendrils of despair,
Sullen bewail curl about the bleak air.
Quotidian events swathe the subtle words,
And quake the frail rafters of Orion's cords.

While tardy paddocks echo the bellow,
And shrill clatter of thoughts wreathe and mellow,
The ample whimpers freight the azure sky;
Forged from gore-winged sails of a Taurean's cry.

Like the wailing of the legends of yore;
Of knights that found no solitude ashore,
But swaddled in hay beneath brazen fields,
Their brook of tears thereof, is with notes sealed.

As the torches of Heaven trudge and quail,
And the beams from these bodies appear frail,
The sons of the pale bull shudder and whine;
Though their deeds are pillowed on quests and wine.

For the surfeit spells of woe suffuse them,
And quell constellations flee their faint realm,
Their amble with quests is with deceit met;
Hauling them adrift divine epithet.

Thus, 'fore blithe recoil from sombre disdain,
While whims laden and chain their myriad reins,
They trudge as men bereft of docile mirth,
For scarlet stars have eddied their gnarled birth.