Though long, lone and lamely lit
There are no flowers to reflect the sun
No trees to prostrate as you tread along
No oasis to whet the gut, but thirst
While gracefully drenched in sweat all yours
So, tell me, do you want this peace?
It’d be wise, then, to plant trees
On the soil of this solitary plain
Those’d be your marks – your pride!
Grace your fingers with keys or pen
And paint bright flow’rs on papered sheets
God himself will send down rains
Walk the way to earn this peace!
Don’t down your dimples when joy jilts
Stir those steamy cells, jolt joy, jog on
Then Athena, Imhotep, other gods – museWill form a band and pluck some strings
Play some tunes in scintillating awe
The rhythms reeling through your mind
In black and white – each new piece!
But keep your eyes on words, my dear
Those little gods weave the world
On them are wound the ways winding on
Sometimes they as letters come, or as subtle scenes
Other times as sound or feeling heard and firmly felt
Let your senses pick their form, and frame
On them depends your every piece!
So if you wish to walk this way
I should tell you one other thing;
This path chooses who walks where
And that’s the making of a bard
But would you, if you had the choice
Become a Bard, nonetheless?
Written by: Anyanya Bassey
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.