Saturday, 20 November 2010

The fate of faeces is a sewage debate


It is November that time of the year  we are stingy
With  desires, we make little time to get ourselves
New dreams, drenched in the rain of old ambitions.
We keep breaking oaths and chewing gums
Over unfulfilled moments that are reminiscences,
Also ghosts, that go to sleep to keep hearts aflame,
Not to turn problems into shame and bring us to a stop
For a small romance with loafers, singing dolefully;
Iwe kiko lai si oko ati ada
We too start to sing to ourselves and even make
Rice-grain foolery of our retention, for knowledge,
Soon dissolves in the embrace of a bigger hope.
It is November already; like the year of the end is now,
And we do not wish to be caught in the bankruptcy of the hour,
As posters pose as the only hope that leads our nose astray
But we don’t smell rats; we are now vermin,
And there is little need to start smelling ourselves.

(c) Jumoke Verissimo 2010

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