Letters From The Dead.
Dear Souls, living like the dead from Adam,
The sea you've crossed o'er has overseen you;
The feathers of the twos of land unveiled
and the butt of your poor chic has been seen.
Your timbrels and dancing cannot appease
the gods; if day smile at you, night will frown.
The two-wheel cannot stand 'cause it's two-tired;
Hence, your strength is weary to save your might...
In the thick air, drowning water, ashed soil;
We're the musical Brooks of sparkling sea
like the foaming breeze between wreaths of cloud,
For you have broken the slab and wrong rites.
Dear Souls, you the living tomb in the womb;
Tragedy tag-heady hence come-heady—
For crystal current masters deep surges;
We once lived in serene and disasters
of melancholic melody. Eyes sank
deep for eyes had dug deep into her depth
so eyes were blind. The pit that fell us then
made us tell you Owè kì se Otè
but those white beards told you the past is blind.
You can bath in ritual flames of freezing
mist or drifting cloud for awhile, time fleets;
Each tick of breath will hold the thunderstorm —
Each cloud will forsake the sky like hazy
curtains, chill march of wind will melt snowed sight.
What man doesn't feel his passage of birth
with justice of heart freezing heating room?
But the knell bell is knolled to cajole and
the fingerprints are scars from fresh formed wounds —
Dear Souls, we live in the air, in waters,
Soil; deep down in thin creepy endless lines;
What good would beads of sweat that streamed the neck,
That flooded streams do when hands are cross legs?
Good is good and ill is ill but the eye
that'll serve till greys will not be rheumy at
the prime age, but would be deep when age olds.
The weary whisper from rock engraving
and Opa Ife should lead you again.
"words from the innocent mind"