The Music Of Cowardice Poem by Haruna Garba

Hoopoe, our bird of wisdom
The celebrated pendant, the poet
After decades of cultural heroism
Filled a cup from centaur
Back home
He packed aside his stepping stone songs

In a compact tree by the citadel
Owl like, he hoots
Facing the citadel, he trills
Turning sideways,
Still on he harps
And how they wished
That it weren't a municipal tree
They would have hurled red hot coal at him,
Hurled un-smothered ember at him
And down a sapling
He sings in an orchestra of nightingales
Its alto reaching the fortress:
Omen, the genius
The whizkid
Omen, the genius
Hovering above him
A kite in a counter tenor hymns
Our children
Chilling the children
Boiling,
Boiling the sleeping cauldron
Our children!

Oh, stop your music of cowardice
You nightingales, you kite
The children, in their store of wisdom
Have very, very little
They are only out to peace
So save your tongues to naught

You churn fresh milk
Ere the cheese will emerge

You concoct and boil
Ere the soup is made

You till the weedy field
Ere the crops will yield

So hold your tongues to naught