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Epistle To The Concerned Blacks by Akinwale Peace

Akinwale Peace

Epistle To The Concerned Blacks.
Back, Blacks, to the cradle or repos'ng age
Mayhap not befall you nor ruin your age
The grandeur days are old, so left will hide
So much to say but lips unsay and slide.
Who can't be silent and who will not lie?
Make satire a spoof and fable the lie,
Let the twittering wings betray the fly
with gloomy melody to untrue lie.
You think this is wild? Take if for a rule;
No man's smartness so little as that afool,
The world is wild so take it for a rule;
Lest prove innocence the quite angry fool.
Their lie; is a piled up file, a tortoise;
A cunning barrel with still echo'ng noise,
Its stupefy, a gross loss and some ploys,
Like a chirrup brook, it's rhythm's a noise.
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
Say for comfort while languish on bed's knee
Of bounty is as boundless as the sea
And lay a fight; a noise of music be.
They, who still wanting though they live on theft
Steals much, spends little yet has nothing left
Made poor, as summer's distill'tion bereft
As old dark pine blasted, bare, mere and reft.
A smoke-like forth of hundred hawkers hawk
As people hear and wave their mournful talk
But the fly of twitters of the air walk
In frost and snow and then lie on bed's stalk.
Their wings of winds comes flying all abroad
Beneath the lonely won-there stars of God
They sleep at home and cast eye far abroad
Like the gathering winds in hoarse accord.
Give virtuous scandal an 'nnocence to fear
Or the virgin valleys; heavens doth tear,
So he who hurts with dews of roses there
Shall look down when a frantic storm doth tear.
Their beauty ev'n shocks; pride that'll lick the dust
Insult the poor and clap for been brave a-thrust
For now, ugly bullets come through the dust
Tho rigid Mace cries out, twas just unjust.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent
A poor coincidence as predicament?
As Hypocrite plays veil of innocent
whose intent to vent is not innocent.
It's sad unfair that the world is suffering
As Aso Rock is a threat to sovereign
And he, who's to sense now nonsense leaning;
means naught but blunders round about a-meaning.
Oh grant me to live and to die, not die
with gloomy melody to untrue lie.
Tell me what I don't know, I know you lie-
A wild death is a life time death-bed to lie.
Back, Blacks, to the cradle of repos'ng age
Quicken'd as youthful youth with warlike rage
Needful and needless to start 'nother page,
Back, Blacks to the cradle of repos'ng age.
All wits, all see-saw between that and this,
Now high, now low, now re'lity, now tease;
Like the rumpling shallow stream of a piss_
Cradle back and hold the truth for your bliss.
"words from the innocent mind"
               Philip Peace


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By those big lions
For whatever they chase,
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