The Tables Spill Poem by Eferebo Chibuzor

When the field's harvests abound,
Our gates, a sea of faces throng.
And when the tables spill,
Deserted our gates become.

The world's a hall of merriment and squalor,
Its lot, we choose by destiny
Or sweat and toil may make us become.
But when nature chooses its lot for us,
Who of all man can question it?

Those of golden cradle born,
O' they of bamboo bed mocked,
Time may overturn the thread.
The bamboo like foenix turns gold,
And the golden cradle in the thatch found.

The wrinkled face shrinks to the worldof a hermit,
But to the fair fine damsel the world smiles.
Oh life'sbut time and chance!
Man is himself a god and demon.

The music blare of the castle we may envy,
Sooner a time the music dies.
Who can remember all men of fame?
Some in the dustbins of life end.