Illusory Poem by Haruna Garba

It isn't indigo, purple or violet
Children all of the drooping blue
And all are Negroes in the backyard
When sleeps, the old sol

Not all which catch the eyes
Are strictly there
Far, far from it
Nay, the superficial needs lifting
Crystalgazers see through and beyond
And only myopic eyes
See it un-flaky, unfolded, the final touch
Final harmony of warp and waft
To them, each finish looks like a shield
Against the sneaker, trespasser wind

Alas, myopic appears the eye

Not all which catch the eye
Or that the tongue utters
Chirped by every crier in the world
That matter, that water hold
Still water runs deep

And waves they are, distilled all
By interfering
Perpendicular ones

So whether for syrup or a drink
Or any other thing
The quassia offers her juice
Our deaf ones refuse to find out
And they are all gases, ashes and water
These trees that rattle their fingers
And so are the kites
Executing the mart of the blue welkin

Inflamed or condensed
Gases, ashes and water
Indeed ever, that is what they are

He isn't blind who merely lost his sight
But has it open
The very eye of the mind

He is blind
Who alone sees the surfaces of things
The blue world being beyond-
So many are ignorant
Of the spectrum of grand shades
Grand, life beyond prism lies

It blows its top
Like potashed cooking sorrels
And then falls homeward
When the heating subsides

He is indeed sand blind
Who sees no clue
In the streamlined bird's frame
Its hallow bones and feather-work
How could they have ever flown aluminum kites?
They could not have ever set sail
In steaming steel vessels, our deaf
That sand blind were
How could they have told shadowy progress
By mere oscillation of a pendulum
Our dump that dump the heart of things

Alas!
The stars aren't pinned to the blue welkin
Neither is stationary, this stand of our huts
Or night everywhere
When our nocturnal come to life

Alas!
The clouds are neither rolling
On the wall of the firmament
Nor is the sky such a solid flannel