Sitting on the knoll i watch the grafting,
as much went forward came back as much,
and sometimes much backwards than as much forward,
isn't the sun too small for mothers born?
i pray it doesn't grow smitely larger to storm!
as loud i call,my voice returns.
please tell me, have i gone spartacus?
yet it returns with the breeze,
caressing all my agony.
suddenly,it sounds not of my sound,
it ignite clearer with no bound,
finally,my eyes clocks at hers.
as it thumbs my nerves and weaves my being into frenzy,
i swallowed my throat and lips the greet,
its my voice again i discovered and an act of grief it gives.
what have i done to me by me!
i solemn as it echoes back
please tell me, have i gone madagascar?
oh no! you have gone nigeria...
the first voice and the very first of no return,
am either deaf or dumb.