lingers to show her face like flies on carcass:
cockcrow is not forthcoming,
clock ticks slowly,
yet tiny choristers of the night
chant sour hymns to the same ears
that await the return of eminent dawn.
Oh! Poor cock where is thy voice;
that eases us from these nocturnal qualms?
where is thy voice that reminds of time’s drippings?
Have the phantoms made thee mute?
Or the vile workers of the night
that comes to kill, to raid and destroy
stolen the watch that tells thee time?
Oh! Poor cock where is thy voice?
For our cradle aches
as eyes graze through the dazzling curtains
to behold an iota of dawn’s ray
but to our flabbergast, Night sways along
while we hope endless-ward.
Oh! Let dawn mount the stage
and break the pot
where fear and quivering sleeps and wakes,
let dastard night flee away
with its vile and gloomy face.
For when the dark night
plays her murky drums,
Dawn lingers to show her face.
Thus I ponder still.
Written by: Fubara Benstowe
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.