When the hungry mouth of the earth
summoned you for dinner
it had no clue you will arrive
dressed for festivity,
drawing the attention of all
to the trail of your flaring fingers,
to the diamond fire burning around your neck,
to your robe studded with flakes of nomadic stars.
Wild flower, the ubiquitous maiden
whose smile lights the sky,
I invite myself to your dinner table
where the poor and the rich drink from the same cup.
It’s hard to live through the day
without noticing you,
without desiring you,
without longing to follow you home.
Today my hands are begging to touch you.
My lips are begging to drink
the pure water from your stream of gold.
My eyes are helplessly fixed
on the specters of the translucent blood
flowing through the veins of your tanned body.
I long to see the roses in your hands
bloom forever in the deserts
of our sobbing streets.
I long for the bell of your infectious
and amorous laughter
to toll forever
and silence the dubious lamentations
of the insatiable clock.
I love how the vivacity
of your penetrating eyes lights up
the face of a sullen day
in which the last ship of the sun’s rays
is slowly sailing away.
What else can the rain say about your kisses
and your open love affair
that it has not yet said?
What song can it sing to the ear
about the generosity of your heart
that it has not yet sang?
No eye can say it has seen
enough of your brilliance,
enough of your beauty,
enough of your wonders,
except the cruel eyes of death.
George MacLean Akurunwa.2014