The Language Of Love Poem by pedro moshood

The Language Of Love



It was self interned in every Hitler's heart,
Though Like countless rotten tubers of yams in the earth
Sowed into a wild land and gobbled by pest.
The expression is quite often unpolished,
Seeming like wild grasses nurtured by fairies
In the virgin heart of the Amazon,
Each time you attempt to describe it;
It defies every word, yet it is real.


I will love you and stand by you forever,
Regardless if the lily I picked the bouquet from
Was nurtured by hags in the coven.
I know the world is full of masked monsters
That will readily pick out flames from ashes
To set ablaze and wrecked in a minute
The fortresses of several years labour.
Yet, do not let such storm unsettle
The calmness of the sea of thought,
We shall rise from ashes and fly again.
Yes, we shall fly far above the sky again.


Though incomprehensible the language may sound,
I've seen it breaching the strong room
To men's heart like perfect musical note,
Making a fool out of scholars,
And cribs out of the hairy grey.
It does not matter whom you are,
The wrongs you've done or where you come from,
Love is a language without word,
That can cause a finger to move mountain,
Restore nature beauty to Sahara,
And brings the North and South together,
Despite the distance that set them apart.

Sunday, December 8, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: love and life
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pedro moshood

pedro moshood

lagos Island, Nigeria
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