Warning: the first stanza of each sub are metaphors of blandness. I. Few of my mates now make it through the smoky room of louds. I say I have a township of colleagues; half gave up their sanity, quarter are …
the autumn speaks more of the harmony songs of birds, at Saskatchewan the winter eats up the moths of colors, it is what makes poets off us, the discovery of sounds at the inductions of poem, the uncovering of new …
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 …