You,
with eyes seeing beyond the horizon of the skies waiting for sunrise, know
The
dash of red painted on the wrinkles of cloud and fired sun is,
The
companion to the sweat and drudge that you shoulder for this Babel city.
Between the pierce of alarm clocks, phones
and screaming babies,
The
wake is permanent.
For
survival
Is
dawn carrying numberless feet into dusk;
When
the wages of work speak dearth
But
dependants assume abundance and decipher meanness.
Desire
is a good thing when age is not running with time; you labour in wait
Until
your shirts bear sweat maps that soap detergents would not clean,
You
are reminded of the arrival of retirement and departure of dreams.
A
new life is when the beer houses trade your last coins
For
the invention of new dreams,
Waiting
to be whipped each night to remain dead.
As
you return home to a barren house and an empty food cupboard,
You
learn
Home
is a suffering of disappearing relatives.
The
cycle has not even begun for the secret of city wealth is to hope
That
the fickle would become the fortune;
And
every cranny could make a valley and drainages may become streams.
In summary: as the last paragraph
of your life would narrate
Universal aspirations: love, fear,
hope, dreams, even laziness
For a life like yours is summed as
one that never worked enough
You, do not know when you finally
die
Perhaps it was in dreaming of
having what you never owned
(c) Jumoke Verissimo 2013