Yahaya Madu

Chronicler of the art of life.

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Germinate, O my rose.

Bathe in dew of the watering trough

That stills a sunrises thirst.

Throne upon the mound of earth

At the center of my garden.

Clothe the dancing winds in perfume.

Your sprouting is sundial to the seed

That in thunder broke my chains.

And waters me a rich kingdom. My dove.

My loving spouse has slept in river of eternal sleep

Thus with the darkening clouds I’m clothed.

In the cleaving of a lemon each tongue tastes but half

But in eternal sleep a whole. Bathed by the river of sleep.

The police wiped my tears, said they did not find the sleeping body

But by the chains of the servant the lines of their witchcraft met.

For the wallet and blood smears of my other half cried out from the grave.

The ingratitude of the heart. Such an evil servant

In form the butterfly, yet in spirit a slice of darkness.

Goodbye my beloved husband. Sleep in peace.

My rose, throne in scarlet

And beautify the temple from which sprang my wings

Thus soar I in freedoms winds.

The judge was lenient, the lawyer a slice of ice

To a tongue that thirsts. “He left no ascendants

Nor descendants. Thus you are the sole heir.”

Music to the ears of Martha. In perfume of my rose.

Underneath the incense of scarlet

That is throne on this mound of earth

Sleeps his decomposing body in river of sleep.

Sleep in peace.