Wooing Poem by Benjamin Elemide

First attempt was like moving a mountain
with the confidence of wax. It melted easily,
into river seeking route through tributary,
before a smiling sun rising somewhere in her mouth.

I gathered courage from the cage of words,
and songs became slippery in my mouth.
Songs are not always for dancing legs,
they are sometimes maps to finding new routes.

The journey into her heart began with
the stars in my eyes looking for light
in the sky of her soul, the night under my skin
looking for darkness under the bridge of her body.

Bridge is home to wandering dreams, like mine,
who have no place in a girl's body to call home.
Breeze came into her lungs for songs, but it was
silence, language of night, that welcomed me home.

Only the Zerubabal in my mouth
knows how many mountains became plain;
Only the gallery of memory knows
how many hearts I have carved home into.