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.


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Sparkling dew falls from the heavens
Upon an army of breeze carressed roses
That in mesmerising scent
Seeks a spell to cast upon the bee.
In the midst of rose blossoms lies
A serpent decked with dew crystals
Still… In the garden of perfume
In breeze pervading the air… In dripping dew…
Pour me a drink of rose scent
Invisible incense
That the Eye of the heart may perceive
In shadows of sunset
A glimpse of promised twinkling stars
That prophesy of drunken beauty
In the midst of flowers in blossom.

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Barman, please, another beer. I am meditating.
The unforgotten sounds of gunshots in
The starry night.
For what did they die? For Nothing.
As the lie goes, the root of all things.
To become honorable and glorious carrion
For vultures
Is the patriots lot.
The dew of blood underneath trees in shadows
That a happily weeping widow
– “Sign here, for his benefits and gratuities.”-
May cash a perfumed cheque. Peace.
This the night of flowers
That in honour, diamond stones,
Decks the graveyard. Of the shiny bullet and sword.
Crucify the Son of God. Let’s have some barbacue.
Green leaves fall of fruitful trees,
To earth a sun
In eclipse.
Water rushes down the mountain rocks
To bathe a form
From the shadows of spilling blood
Not for money.
This pile of heroic dead, a feast for the pecking vultures.
How much to put a bullet in his head?
Stud his chest in the hug of fire?
You have the money?
Then let’s play.

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Tractor Engine

The wheels etch their tracks in the softness of the earth.
In the coldness of dawn
The four wheel drive, humming, suspending the plow
Is steered by hydraulic cylinders over dew kissed grass
In swimming earth
To awaken the sleeping field.
The left pedal, the clutch, shifts the gears as a foot
Presses the throttle and as the hand control lever
Gives the command for the plow’s descent
It threshes soft moistened flying earth
For the awaited burial of the seeds.
The rear differential lock is made and the slip of wheels
Is frozen
Iron elecrifying the tractors giant wheels
In equal speed.
Yes, by this diesel engine do the cattle rest
Sacred no more. For the sharp knife’s blade is now drenched in dew
And no longer in the watery rose hue from a cow that pulls the plow
In the cold of dawn. The horse also rests, still sacred.
For with the spirit of four hundred kilowatts
And five hundred horsepower
In the internal combustion engine flowing through the snaking wires
What use is the galloping hoof?
The tractor plows a moist earth blade slicing path
Wether for landscaping the grass into a green mown work of art
Or for picking the perfume of tangerines in orchards in raincloud shadows
The equipment
Corn pickers, corn planters in the golden fields
The belly mowers or front end loaders of shinning steel
Preserves the art that elecritifies the body with the ink
Of the spirit of diesel.
This auxiliary tank, like the barn after harvest
Keeps the turning wheels from the stillness of death
In the main fuel tanks expectant slumber.
At night, the thief dreams of gear box treasure,
Sell it, and taste some wine. The operator sits
In the tractors enclosed cab, hard drugs coursing
Through his veins, for how else shall the fool have rest?
From fatigue in the burial that is blessed?
The tractor engine that once over sipped ethanol
Is now a moderate drinker of diesel, and drunkard no more.
Rippling earth in the embrace of a disc harrow.
The angels are fools, know no rest, when computerized pianos have
Silenced the harps of heaven. Priest! Download sermons into an MP3
Attach it to speakers on sunday, it shall keep the audience at the altar
Spellbound. And learn from the diesel engine
What rest is the sacred cows, that once plowed in swimming earth
Over grass kissed by sparkling dew.

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Lay some lilies upon a mirror pearled by dew

Color the painting of its roses

Lay a wreathe on the sad ripples of your reflection

Adorn the silent lake.

Clear the mist in a breeze drenched in light.

Silent waters mirroring images of a silent heaven

That is to the talons, embracing the dove, of the beautiful eagle

A misty halo.

Sometimes the waters of the lakes

Reflect the silence of sunny blue skies

That makes parchment of the earth

And in cracks on the ground that is cursive script

Ordains a famine and crowns the death of the grass in silver hue.

The winds tell of the divorce of the moistness of dew

From slaking the thirst of Mother and Child.

Sometimes the music in the dew of heaven

Utters upon the lake

Odes about the greenery in which the lion sleeps,

The sweet smell of death beside its slumber.

For they say life comes from the waters

And death when the thunder veiled in the clouds is silent.

Animals and men may die in famine and heaven does not weep,

Yet the blood of the poor that sleep beneath the skies

By soft shiny dew drops is washed away.

Upon the Cross, sounds in the winds;

“My Lord, My Lord,

Why have You

Forsaken Me?

Veiled it is, what the breeze utters

When it rustles through these leaves.

The call of the rainy descent of uncut diamonds as ice stones

And the answer of thunder.

Yet in the odes uttered by the falling dew

There is music of the drowning hare, and the lions peaceful sleep

To adorn in dew drops of blood the floating lilies.

The earthworm but dreams of the black eagle, of the gentle doves

That always seek to embrace the childish clouds

Drenched in light.

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Elegy of the Setting Sun

The reflection of light in the dew

In a rosebud that is dome to silence

Crowns the windy ripples in a pond

That is to a temple wrapt in darkness

A  ray of light perfumed

In still waters.

In the sad music of the morning breeze caressing the leaves.

What eclipse in shroud of slumber

Cloaks at dawn the sun ?

What primordial law embraces the dark form of space

In perpetual darkness


Only by the rays of the leaf of the candle flame ?

Those that watered the garden

Did not taste of its pomegranates

But are in earth in the womb of nature,

The tearful drops of dew that drips from the leaves

Do not mourn them.

The path of the sun is clouded by the dark of the moon

Nightfall embraces the flower buds at the hour of descending dawn

Reason slumbers from the motion of many dying ripples

But not in the bust that is a mirror

To the peeble in the sparkling waters.

It is not the painting of the rose in bloom

That breathes a sceptre to the memory of its blossom

But the breeze of the sceptered seed.

Perhaps the winds that pluck the buds of the lilies

Is spirit of beloved but departed fingers

That once heard the flute of natures laughing waters

But now, as kings, live in the notes of its music.

The darkness that is in the tears of the misty clouds

Becomes the springs

And the invisible dew of the evaporating waters

Becomes the army of gathering clouds

That waters the garden of the earth

In dew drops in the waters of eternity.


In peace

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The breeze is music upon soft piano keys That utter notes that whisper into the earth And soothes the stillness of the lake Into butterfly kissing ripples Mesmerizing the perfume of flower blossoms. The thunder utters terrible things But is soothed into silence By the stillness of the waters, The hurricane and the calm breeze Are One. The music of the heavens In streaks of lightning And gathering winds whispering In the war drums of the storm Foretells the calm of the music Of the rain in dripping dew Upon the greenery of a pond, quiet. Dreaming of the orchestra of the sea The Navy sailor is transfixed upon the earth By the cool fires of blooming gardens And in dew drenched leaves, the melodies of brightly coloured birds. Ah, this is paradise For the lions no longer exist And the slender antelope listens To the music of the wind In the grass laden by dew And the green serpent is waiting for the hen, guarding her eggs in peace. The naval sailor is dreaming Yet is awakened by the rain In the melody of ice and of thunder.