Opolot Nicholas L’akwang
The gentle charming wind whispers in the air,
Caressing the sweetness of the c-o-o-o-o-o-l breeze,
Moving in effortless wonder, unmindful of its beauty,
That consumes my soul with happiness and wonder
The gentle moon stares into our faces,
Cascading its brightness unto our dull pitiful faces,
Until it grows exhausted of our d-u-l-l existence,
Of seeing the same young lovers grow too old,
And finally falling asleep in hues of the twilight
The gentle proud morning sun wakes up,
Stretching and castings its kaleidoscopic rays
Breaking through defiant castles of clouds
As it tenderly kisses the face of the earth with blessings,
Blessings washed all over mighty hills and villages
The gentle frogs call out c-r-o-a-k-i-n-g,
Soaking the silent night with symphonies and sweet melodies
Their husky voices in the dark,
Seduce re-consideration of their beauty pageant petitions,
As they prostrate and confess their love to beautiful lilies
The gentle c-r-e-a-k-i-n-g crickets
Suddenly awaken you from sleep
Your bed squeaking in annoyance, as they keep c-r-e-a-k-i-n-g,
Singing in orchestras of broken rhythm
The gentle meadows play hide and seek
With the shifting shadows of the evening light
Maybe a reflection of my soul?
Or a mirror of my blissful perfect confusion?
Total diffusion of sweet enchanting beauty,
Maybe simply a reminder of dashing,
Imagined extinct African maidens
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