This is an aphorism I write to you April, in it is found a little secret advice
Your elder brother is late.
Against expectations, he left us with Amort creatures to grief
Smashed our heads like African soldiers
Yet we did open the door, but he left with an acrimonious goodbye
While you were yet unborn
Greatness was prophesied as the strength of your emergence.
For priests baptised your head
In the fountains of deluge appeals
At night the world waited for you
Like the coming of a saviour
For resurrection shall be a reality
With vaccine that warms the soul
For you are my birth month
And 17th is the number
That joy shall come to us again
And heroism will be our crown
You are the name my progeny must bear
Like you, he will be an epoch
And wisdom replete his knowledge
For April can’t be a fool.