Fragrant, flowing fields of flowers.
Faitfhful friends, fantastic festival
Fittingly fresh, free, fertile fonds
Framed fortunes,forevermore!
4/19/2023
THINKING!
Am done writing
Because I don't like rising
But falling into pleasant places
Riches of glory
Fond of palm fonds
For fun of the Jews not gentiles
To cut off their thesis
So they don't pass because they were not trained
So I pray they go like
Ananias and sapphire
The good new days are today if only the good knew days.
Longue Bruxelles en direct!
Nous avons besoin de se battre,
Et pénibilité réagir,
Sans retenue ni hésitation,
Et blâmer dans l'agression.
Islam et la foi doivent aller vers le bas,
Ils doivent se résorber dans la renommée,
L'islamophobie est plus crédible,
En raison du terrorisme indélébile.
Il y a quelque chose de faux,
Avec la chanson répétée de la religion,
Qui assimile les radicaux,
Qui sont les criminels potentiels.
Il protège les réactionnaires,
Et les fonds des armées Jahidi,
Nous demander de tolérer,
Le délégué plus libéral.
Nous devons indiquer les lignes,
Des pins sincères de la foi,
En se félicitant de certains,
Et en interdisant l'un.
The tamer of my heart.
For too long I am wanderer,
A normad searching for love,
Vagabond worker of piquancy;
I meet birds, none looks dove,
I see flowers,none is like rose .
River bird ignore me not,
Tell me where my love is;
The angel with camwood on her feet,
Who has two beads on her twisting waist,
Whose hairs are youngest palm fonds.
The arrivistes say they cat-walk
But my love is a gorgeous chameleon;
Stepping out like recovering for tiredness,
Tire? No,she's only being ebullient, debonair;
Her steps only dexterity of her beauty.
Tell me river bird, lest I die:
Her camwood , my beam of light,
The cymbals on her waist sing me lullabby,
Her hairs are the capillaries of my heart;
Ignore me not, my heart aches.
Alas, whispers of light, could she be the one ?
Is this light shadow of her glorious camwood ?
Foliage is dancing,could her cymbals be singing?
My heart turns,oh heals,it pumps,life rejuvenates,
A glimpse,glaring, she is, she is the tamer of my heart.
Ade Kayode Adebayo
14/2/14
Presumably ovid,
with qualm,
wit, and wisdom,
as to the smallest orb,
give way to our
very own,
Christendom.
As horn-mad, to
fetch me about,
the Kings, they play
mighty,
their Queens,
a jester and pout.
Though ancient
as jointure, the merry
plenty they must,
with the lyric
of masterful lyre,
a temptation
of lust.
The beauty of
maidens,
the fullness
of their breasts,
made ever-virtuous.
As the sun sets,
vertigo,
the nestles
of primrose and cressets,
giving way to the lecherous.
Oh. . . the love,
of Jesus,
our very own,
the saintliness of Magdalene,
the diadems of
the Goddess throne.
Amidst a canonized
hearsed, our beloved
Sun, rightfully lets.
The essence and infinity
of Magdalene, again
a Nemean regrets.
As the green fonds
of the winter fern
shed its nurturing essence.
Waves of nostalgia blazened
by the mid-December
days ripening afternoon.
The snow covered pines,
the aroma of fresh coffee,
the feigned ecstasies
of the struggling artists
made fragile,
and at no attempt.
Piercing thoughts of verse,
no love made without quarrel.
The day began as it always does
in December,
amidst melancholy and sorrow.
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