Faeo 'Lyre' Clive (16th August 1989 / Isseke - Ihiala, Anambra State.)

No tribute is blind but may in a way, mad.
But if there is one, tribute, so it had
Been. The greatest lettering of sadness
That produces a hand neighbouring, shall else
Be taken with a mark of a wreath as come.

Here comes a tribute's use intil a foul if
A neighbour shall come making by but brief,
But within his seeing, took conscious of
A sepulchral corner and for him enough,
Intil another moving, he made adjustment

Intil the gathering, close. Any thinker alive
Shall with either conscience or a touch, strive
To count him. It is on the desk, a bid,
To sort. And thereupon, he passed, as he did
Nothing but good of the dead, with remarks

Of the lost. What shall of this affection
That come with the elegiac comment hereupon
To decide a loss? If you know not the loss,
Have you lost? He may lost but his discourse
Shall laid of a touch. So come be counted,

My show of sorrow intil a death I know
Not, but my tribute is in no form, low,
A fantasy if the interruption supreme
And greatest enemy human, in the mask and beam,
Inevitable, is no illusion thence.

I am marking with a red ink, a hand
That moulded me to scribe. I do thus stand,
Making a tribute of a nobody. One
Has the say, aye! but this hand that has won
But the art of this exercise for me.

___ intil a scription of what I may later feel,
I know not the course that this cause will heal
To have been writting down what Socrates told
His accusers. So comes i just with my cold
Blunt nib. With my apostrophe, I am not

Anybody intil Mr Okoba that I can lay intil
Him but perhaps I deposit, in my will,
Thus unto our second meeting to part no
More, in the supreme posterity although
I now drag with a loss __ this thing called death.

This is not finished, my tribute but loose
Intil abandoned. My awareness that made to bruise
This piece intil interruption is not, but did
Ignore him. Yet, Papa! Had we of one seed,
A family I have not, then my tribute

Shall be accustomed affectionately;
But not, I have written one so courtly
Else, as neighbouring. My hand, thus, is not
Native; and have nobody made intil this thought
Of love and passion, abroad. Aye! Nobody has

A tribute as I may not. But are we
In blood, one, as I did feel in this? Be
It holy or good it come, that thursday eve,
Papa, our first and last, that you bade the leave,
I accustomed it familiar and one,

Fortunately intended. My breast quakes
Not but strong in the faith to quote, it wakes
That your choosing is a fate of purpose
As the necessary end breathe to repose,
Our account. Adieu! Patrick Ubaka Okoba.