When my heart speaks to me, that I’ll turn a tourist. Merely, to find a neck to my stationary head. I dispute this prophecy with utmost disdain, now, turning truth—closer to accurate reality.
I have toured round the cosmos, exploring for beauties. But found none. Maybe, the fortune you carry, blindfolded my face from seeing the maidens around. Each and everyone I encounter; all of a sudden, my sense of smell turns active, perceiving a carbon smell as stenchy as a carcass, which had been for days dumped beside the highway—irritating. Smell that could send one to the journey of no return. But once I found you, I found my missing rib; my lost wristbone. I felt a nib; a presence of an angel, a harbor abyss for peace. I smell life.
I have walked under the monsoon, hunting for toad to quench my hunger. But all I found was the one with lanky legs braced with crooked neck. I have embarked on walkabout under the moon, merely to catch a coruscating star. But all that occupied the sky were hazy and dim. Now, with you alone, I have more than enough; beautiful things of life.
If love was a choice, I’d chosen yours. In your face are scintillating stars illuminating my heart, when each time passes. In your trait are humanity and longevity.
Even if you were a gourd of palm wine, you are distinct from the diluted ones; a newly tapped palm wine you are, not yet tasted. I have seen beauty, I have been revived from rickety joint. I can now dance to the talking drum of Àyánwálé, and interpret what the flute of Ìgè depicts.
Did you still remember vividly our first day of running into each other? The day, where every nook and cranny of the town looked cloudy, when the sky became ugly like a weeping “egbére,” grunting inwardly like a pig injured in the heart; all these happened earlier before we met each other. But as soon as you positioned yourself well against that desiccated fig tree, it became layered; ampled with leaves, throwing me smile, I felt the glimpse of ray (àjàgà mí rõrùn, erù mi sì fúyé).
Your presence in my life has occupied that vacant room where is mainly meant for beautiful queen like you—as beautiful as “ëyë òkín.” Õmõ ádámò has said there’s no virgin lad. Maybe, mine; virginity and immaculateness were kept for a pride like you. If you hear a king like me sing in the dawn while snow drops, better wriggle and dance to the lyrics. For whenever we are arms in arms, I feel the caress of coldness.
Let each of this sweet word of mine leave a memory on the surface of your heart. Don’t admit any interlaced lines of those connivers, for they are “ënï ètàn” in view to collapsing one’s long built mansion of love. Let’s both fight for the success of the longevity.
Lest I forget, Baba has been longing to see that beautiful flower, plucked at the backyard of “Ënï-Aàbire.” Wear your shoes, purchased in the market of Arëwà, tie your sààyan, kept neat your box, and follow suit down to our refuge.
She calls me a poet
I call her my line
Can a poet do
Lines in his verses,
Turning beautiful poetry?
Let me paint your heart
With a painter’s brush and a bleeding fluid
To help you beautify it
With diverse of scintillating arts
In the abyss of your heart
Love is beautiful than the ewí
I whisper into your ears
but a theory
Let’s do the real practical;
The glittering love
Beautiful than erotica.
Beautiful than spoken poetry