In this state, I need see you Ìràwé
For that, I have travelled from a land far away
I have rode here on the chariot of imagination meant for Knights
To mourn you, I have sojourned all night
See, he is here-the mysterious Omoni
For your funeral, he embraced the cold all morning
Looking at mother tree, I read your unwritten biography
And here, to be knocked out by whirlwinds, I have imagined
Ìràwé, who ever thought you could turn sick?
No one! You were so healthy and nature green
Ìràwé, the man you shielded from rain while you were green will soon come
He would walk pass as you crack silently under his harsh boots
Ìràwé, the woman you guided from the sun?
She is here, in the fire she will make, you shall burn
Ìràwè, before then, teach me to know that life won’t last
I beg of you, let it echo that I belong to the sand
Ìràwé, your green brothers are dancing to the tune of the killer wind
Ironic! The same way men enjoy the deadly life goodies
Your absence is too obscure among your healthy siblings
Life is only beautiful when it dawns that it holds no meaning…
Ìràwé is a Yorùbá word for dry leaves. They lie under the mother tree when nature puts an end to their earthly sojourn.
The Poet? Not necessary. He is a literary surgeon at theatre of Perspectives