Again, We Shall Meet

We would meet at Hill of Ibadan again,
It is the promise we all make
At the line of departure, but
Who knows, which is true,

 

And who would hold firm
To purpose when survival
Becomes a war field and hope
Becomes a colored unicorn?

 

Every one of us keep to running
And let be of their promises,
It has been a long time on the road, the hair
Is greying, the heart grows wild flowers

 

Now and then, foreign woman is calling
You to her arms, your body full of wants
But it was never the reason you are here
In the first place, you have seen the flowers

 

Blossom, orchard of apples, you lived
Half of your life in the train, trying,
Trying to please your shifts, you know
You must forget the meeting place

 

And live to meet up with self before others,
No one tells you; surviving is harder
than living, and keeping promise of such;
Is a factor of how much you were able to keep your life.

 

When my brother promised to see me soon,
I wish for him to be able to see himself through,
Then I know we would surely see, not the train station
Reminding me of old relatives who could not

 

Find their ways out and him. And the sight of sea
Telling the tales of the ones whose tongues
Become an exilic gangrene, their dogs running
Beyond them, their guardian donkeys died

 

on the road. They turn birds of goodwill
and wishes. Hoping becomes their early morning
devotion, they could not promise further,
as it breaks when you could not fulfill promises

 

you made to yourself. Last night I stopped
promising myself the sight of another sunrise,
if by chance my poem says of a better place and
nice book; forgive my ignorance; they are

 

infatuations I could never live without.
Tomorrow, we would meet again…. again