a poem by Oredola Olamilekan Ibrahim, Nigeria

... a poet dead many years ago

I am, who later live many times,
After been echoed your ringing rhymes.
I've seen your sweet archaic tongue,
I am also a poet, a poet really young.
Perhaps I'm the one,the poet of your song.

I read your words as much as hears
Driving in the passionate thought of your tears
I have your greetings in which I bow
It conveys words of a man that know
I wish I have your powdery bones in tow.

O friend enstranged, dead and lived,
Am not in whole of your British seed
But just an alien, compelled to known
Rather by will but your ancestors' tone
Still, I've read your words at night alone.

In a little room, I have scan your song
And known the way you shan't pass along
That Homer's question thousands of years ago;
In front of Shahs and Sheiks, we're trying to show
I wish you see how we strain for a bough.

The "wine" and "music", the "statues" and "love"
Are yet , still things far our hands above!
And few who's got some in us lacks a passionate voice
That's brought the whole thing in a shabby falls
Wish you stand up to mock our fruitless noise.

The fleet of cars and rides in sky
Palaces of metal, glass and masonry
Now becomes Trojan horses, we long to rear
Pathfinders in Proteges' camp full of tears...
How shall we CONQUER?!

Now I've written my piece for you to see
For I know the Lost and Dead one day shall see
Might you a chance again the world to roam
Alone take this verse to read in a lonely room
And then proclaim to all poets that lives in Rome.


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