For Chinua Achebe
The sun withdraws its yellow eye
and you gave in slowly to a
new dawn of old parturition;
it has been known, when man closes
his last eye, he has kicked th' bucket.
His Black Soul, who was his black boy
has lived on this hill of shedd'ng rocks
'n' our soul has left us, when he did.
were we not to live as memories?
we're pilgrims in the credo of living.
What essence does he speaks, if not
from him? we have barrels of wine
and our cups are swept by the wind,
yet we drink all our passion and
hold our knuckles against our fist.
Was it not here, that things fall 'part?
and we close both eye, to see 'is eye —
and we think of thought, and what 's left.
is it not unwell, that while we
entrust ourselves here, we're pilgrims?
Beloveds, wander as the cloud
ev'n at its silent rumble. the
constellations is in our palm,
are we not the Black Boy he left?
life rests not in shroud, but its breath.
You're gone inner and outer, gone.
no moon, no ground, no sky, no you.
and we are not close to be far;
for, we're the shadow of your books
and the murmuring of dry dust.
If the cage is kept, is the bird
of his lips rent, or his wings plucked
as bitter fruits? sweetness, is it
not in struggle, as you did for us?
is it not in the drunkenness
of the wetting mud? it is seen
in the smooth weft of looming clouds
and the emptiness of rain in
a pregnant cloud. yet, is it not
this life that you've lived, and we'll live?
"words from the innocent mind"
Akinwale Peace Akindayo