Exiling Festival Poem by Timothy Faboade

I did enjoy the warm waves
Of the torrent talking drums that
Coaxed the beaded waists
Rotated in all the cardinal points,
The right rites for the gods,
The scented embroidered clothes
That join hands with some friezes
To canvass envies from the sojourner
Bizarrely.

NOW

The sojourner says sarcastically
That all the past are frivolous.
He serves my table with unleavened
Bread in a frosty mood with the rabbis
Watching me pitiably crumbling
The repellent bread under a pretense
Like a gleeful outworn mole.
I show my thirty-two to embrace
The savaging holy laws in the book
While thick bushes are explicitly
Soaring higher on the bare head
Of the shrine of my felling festival.

LATER

If I throw up the bitter, salient
Sacraments and the rabbis
Having seen I couldn't swallow
The braggarts' bread, he would,
As he did to my father, whip
Me and angrily expunge me
From the crooks' flawed fold
Which because of I leave
My festival unfastened,
What will I cordially cuddle?
Worsening the cloudy condition,
I can't identify the spot of joy
Of my incommunicado festival shrine…