There is the big wonderous ocean;
lying grey at it abode,
and almost asking the sky to kiss that soft lips.
there have been countless number of rainfalls,
with doubtless magic squares of showers.
We live just close to the tropic,
and just overhead our fore lies the doldrums—
but still our surpluses keeps baking under the mighty sun.
An epistle of letters not clarified,
still under the urge to feel the power of the rains;
and taste the full of fertility.
Where did the cassava and maize go wrong,
that they never taste the passion in my heart—
And endure the lot in my soul to harvest?
I wish the winds could flag my emotions;
—and the stream of the roots of herbs bath my deep
so I can share my all with humanity.
The Village Thinker © 2014