The Lost Stream Poem by Felix Emeka George

Standing at the stream side
‘Ajogwu, my son'-he called
Ask if awoke from reverie
Pointing at the bank standing stream;
Slow and quietly lib he called, said
Son from this pale dark stream
We and our livestock water from
It cure so called our valley of life;
Look at the staky movement
And to the throb of the stream
Flowing on making incessant gurgling sound
Like the maidenly hips on motherly moon dance
And counting the projecting rocks feeling
At peace: so we were lovely and lissome
I could not utter anything
A child but listen and
Looking deeply about the stream mystery
The content his father was rightly mouths.
Turned and again spoke
Earnestly and passionately agony
It seemed the stream it flowing
Like a bridge set in a cloud of wastes.
Brought a home our sewing piping.
Where our mothers fought with their neighbour
With irons and plastics of the death-tools
Which impatiently live stocks in million march
To grease in the peroxides acid as water
Which tasteless became a taste and coloured
Which the sweet gurgling sound ceases of
Lubricant the rates and sold slavery
My stream-life, life-stream of my land,
For the lost-stream.