Goodbye To Ibadan.
Tribal marks on hills -like cracks of
bronze- wink like deep inscribed black tyre.
Raw clay huts 're reflects to ages–
Rust palm leaves are secret keepers
as they're wind beakers for soft waves–
Like of soft rose on the valley.
The crack on the rocks are so smooth;
They must have lived in peace and war.
The splash of sun in the city
is a talk of the old; they lived.–
You're glorious in your odd accent;
Ibadan, the land of brok'n Gold.
"words from the innocent mind"