Let’s have it this way, Flora;
I’ll write of your lips
That has the rainbow sight
From the hill I stand.
Yours is to read.
I’ll write of your eye-orbs
That can freeze Medusa,
Make dead wake,
And make man mute.
Yours is to read.
I’ll write of your lips;
So divine and heavenly
With juices of nectar
And taste to bring back the gone.
Yours is to read.
Flora, I’ll not but sing to you
A solemn sonorous silent song
That has, before now, deafened death
And made the gold glow like the sun.
Yours is to listen.
©Tóyìn Sharifdeen Awókúnlé
(Tersemann)
26:08:3017
5:30pm