Good Mourning. Poem by Israel Akinbode

The drunk night woke in his vomit,
Staggering away as the moon snores to sleep,
I heard his voice down the street,
Telling all he will come again.
.
His unkempt beards and dumb hairs,
His dirty shirt sat on a sick jeans,
Different shoe on different foot,
The night was an improper pauper.
.
Her dews were our tears,
So hurt were our eyes,
Though breeze blew
Eloping with our only dress.
.
Let's sing chants to the distance su(o) n,
Let's wail aloud to the coming elite,
May be they could make our air light
Blowing away the litters of the night.
.
As the day falls and break,
May her shell never sell our secrets,
May our voices when its dawn
Never be a good mourning.
.
©Todas.