Zachariah isaboke

In bits of time you were a bullet,
Aimed at a stacked man's heart,
Flying at heartless speed to hurt,
A little golden pebble of death.
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Of whom poverty calls home,
Sleeps on woven sorrows,
Wishes for heaven graceful gaze,
And dares the gods' helping hands.
...

How did love flew,
And left us untrue,
Forgetting how we grew,
Apart.
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Time was a second less to a flicker,
In a town distant not to the eye,
That I stood to look a far a flower,
As fair not of the land I stand.
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When you were young and thin,
The village whispered silently,
Waiting for you to wither away,
But you defied all and fattened.
...