Sand of Time

Listen again to the tale of papa's goat: The earth was white before when I was born in the pen of penury' breast. Shivering,conventioning, he talked to us. Dark pregnant of the sky was his rendering in the clitories of the moon in the night. In the sand of time before we came, Papa was a singer with a great tone, the endless miles of greatness were nothing to him if it bears fruits of luck. He spent his leisures in the embrace of the city that harboured his dreams. His cattle spoke of tomorrow to come, His cock pecked on honesty of the land because Nkporo was nearer nile. Strive and argument of the moon and the stars were the happiness in eyes. Torment were but a tale of the wicked. The time passed through the sand in an hourglass antiquated chambers of a soulful rhythms, bygotting memories. Papa died with a tale in his throat which he never let go to our ears to behold. But we inhaled love of his telling eyes. Our feet trembles with tenderness, here once stood our homes under the bridge that crossed the sky stomach, here once stood the Shrine of papa as seen in his dying flashed eyes- but yesterday tells of today in fear. We can now allow the sand to talk us into finding our root; a home that understand and perceive our fragrances We hold Dreams in our embraces remembering what fate has spoken about us before we were born here. ©John Chizoba Vincent From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustaration