There remained no little concentration
when love dies and breath is ceased by cotton…
in this beautiful song echoing from the streets
lives a soul-in-a— song written by butterflies.
life rolling like moss of roses
charms caging browned leaves
on interludes of greys and ferns…
when love dries and nose purged with foam
shall night live by light and light live by night?

She, sits and stirs the moon’s ribs by winds
adorns and tickles rays of thunderstorm—
he, that sips stars and aircrafts
threading clouds and smoke into rains;
i have walked with rodents in-pesticides,
and like cigarette: a smile is a layered smoke
evening to evening and noon to noon,
the sea breached laws and regulations
of cities, men and soft hearts
footing lenses and abridging chronicles…

In the airs of birds and bats,
fogs and dews sit on porcelains
of bards, saints, priests and warlords
whose beliefs are but of love awashed!
wherever the snake’s bite caressed me
by hairs, bones, teeth, and abdomen
these songs of the orphan and the molested are felt…

Evil has no feelings for a growing songstress
like the seeds that falls into a harmattan crack
if not why must the carpenter
sing of roses and tulip aquariums?
when the wood-man toss of furniture for housewives…
a speech made on clouds
under shoes and behind calfs
is by far, by nighs, the drums
in which pollinations of babies
and of routes of leaving brimmed…

©Nana Arhin Tsiwah

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