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A beautiful memory to call,
Delicious to the somber mind,
As hope rises in May.
On the trees round about,
Bequeathal of mother-nature,
In abundance lay its fruit.
Overtly dancing in the deep,
Just as pale hibiscus and memories fade,
Incalculable murder of hope.
Adaobi makes me sick, psychosis-wise,
Knotted unto her own world,
Oblivion there she puts me;
Retained still, is my eager and willing ear.
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A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Delicate to the warmth of summer,
And both rise from a morning in May.
On the tree that nestle afar,
Beleaguered heart and willing ear,
In waiting a simple tale to hear.
Old and pale is that sunny sky,
Jaded memories and fading echoes,
Inadvertently killing May.
Adaobi still aloof, in a wonderland she remained,
Knitted under the setting sun,
Over the golden gleam,
Really, what is life but a dream?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem