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

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