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    Listen again to the tale of papa's goat:
    The earth was white before when I was
     born in the pen of penury' breast.
    Shivering,conventioning, he talked to us.
    Dark pregnant of the sky was his rendering
     in the clitories of the moon in the night.

    In the sand of time before we came,
    Papa was a singer with a great tone,
    the endless miles of greatness were
    nothing to him if it bears fruits of luck.
    He spent his leisures in the embrace of
    the city that harboured his dreams.

    His cattle spoke of tomorrow to come,
    His cock pecked on honesty of the
    land because Nkporo was nearer nile.
    Strive and argument of the moon and the
    stars were the happiness in eyes.
    Torment were but a tale of the wicked.

    The time passed through the sand in
    an hourglass antiquated chambers of
    a soulful rhythms, bygotting memories.
    Papa died with a tale in his throat which
    he never let go to our ears to behold.
    But we inhaled love of his telling eyes.

    Our feet trembles with tenderness,
    here once stood our homes under the
    bridge that crossed the sky stomach,
    here once stood the Shrine of papa
    as seen in his dying flashed eyes-
    but yesterday tells of today in fear.

    We can now allow the sand to talk
    us into finding our root; a home that
    understand and perceive our fragrances
    We hold Dreams in our embraces
    remembering what fate has spoken
    about us before we were born here.

    ©John Chizoba Vincent
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  • Oyin Young: Saturday, 21 January 2017 at 21:40:00
  • Label(s): John Chizoba Vincent , Poems
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