O, find me in the silent yard!
Rustling with fury foliage
There, where whines and groans unheard
Chirpy azure, discharged mirth
But under the sun, I long to slake;
‘Tis my dying soul with chilly breath
I’m a cloud, lightning: no peal, no sound!
Silently mourning with strange dirge
O, I, the brave wimp; sorrow had found
I’m a living death;
Dying to live an age
While things of agony, crowded;
Laments and prescient presage
I’m the dirge, weak lips of air blow
The torment, graves abhor to bury
The trampled flowers’ bellow
I’m bullion that lit the nights
In their activities of murk,
O! I, a jailer, enslaving plights!
Yes, I am a swift fleeting chariot:
Racing to where peace poised
And to pain, I be Judas Iscariot
For I’m a beam of faith in the sky
That soon must bright all
Man falls, but must soar high!
Written by: Stephen Crøwn Gyet
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.