Cold Is A Country Poem by Echezonachukwu Nduka

Cold Is A Country



Dear son,

I got a report that when yesterday's downpour
was seconded by the wind that made you shiver,
you ran indoors and wore thick coats,
a head-warmer that swallowed your ears
and gloves that made you look like a leper.
You smoked cigarettes and sipped spirits,
claiming that cold had armed itself with swords
and you were not ready to die.
Perhaps, you would have fought if you
were a knight with the mastery of swords.

As you await your visa to join me here,
I write to let you know that planet earth
births countries in minutes and seconds.
They require no leaders and battle-ready armies;
nor do they require flags and political parties
to paint lies like portraits.
They exist on their own and rule everyone they meet.
Unfortunately, taxes are much more than coats,
head-warmers, spirits and cigarettes;
there are more heaters used for the service of such countries.

Son,
As you await your visa,
I also await your arrival to your dreaded phenomenon.
Here in my apartment, cold is a country.

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