by Ike Aro
Morning was a waking song of respite
The land still bears a living memory
Of the fuming havoc of the rains.
Yesterday’s rain—that wrecker of dreams—has screamed itself to a truce
It was the tempest that lost its temper.
That suspicious song of respite.
Here reigns the unburdening of the vilest season,
But we still count our submerged losses;
Those losses that burden our flooded hearts.
Pain is a litany of countless sighs,
For the stitches of a season in hibernation
Bite harder than the wound.
And now we know better.
Last time the flood took away the door with it.
And the floor became a riverbed.
Who knows the heart of this truce,
The device of a distant dissembler
Let's take shelter under the silence of the new dawn
Listen.
But the whispering has returned.
Thunder growls in the distance.
The roof shudders with terror.
There were voices that spoke of its betrayal.
Its worthlessness.
Our helplessness.
Now that our fortress has caved in,
It's time to seek the face of our fear
To cushion our terror into little deaths.
Ike Aro is a Nigerian playwright, poet, children book author, script writing tutor and author of radio plays. His poetry has appeared in Ogele, African writer magazine, Penned in Rage, Poetry Motion, and several others. His first collection of poetry, The Weeping Earth, was published in 2007.
