With carte Blanche
The cartel of your beauty
Itself expresses
You are, folk's and gentry's
lingo
Jealousy of women
Desire of men
For the town, you are it's poetry
Its Iroko towering pageant
'Golden chalice', the lads call you
Centuries
It cost me, to drink from it
Alas, thousand men, ran mad
Trying
Only now, realized I
That you are, indeed golden
But a poisoned chalice.
I. A. Sambo
19/01/2012
Abuja, Nigeria.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem