I've known of days when I lived with my grandparents.
Eating in moulded plates,
Drinking directly from the rain.
I know of Days.
Days when writing was difficult.
Speaking of as easier,
As it has always been.
Those days when I slept with books in my laps and tears in my eyes.
Trying to memorize the letters.
I know of days.
Those days when I wake to the cry of the earliest cock.
Jumping out if the bamboo bed or straw mat I laid on.
Walking to the stream which is about a mile or two,
With friends and neighbors, gossiping.
I know of those days,
When grandpa brings food and fruits from his farm.
Drying bags of cocoa seeds at the back of our house.
I remember those days...
Until death crawled in like an innocent child.
Snatched their souls away from our holy bond.
Cruel as it is,
It made them wear white clothes.
Leaving me with nothing but memories.
To laugh and cry from.
Memories of yesterday.
Thoughts of the day, when it's actually night.
© Madinah_Writes
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Fragrance From A Black Flower
Poetry#1 in blackpoets This collection of poems is intended to give some account of the conditions in which African oral poets produce their works, and the audiences to which they address themselves. However, even the most summary account of this topic is...
