Before the city grew teeth of storeys,
Every road was once a footpath of dark earth,
Every skyline a village dream feigning height.
The whirlwind arrives like an ancestral drum,
Beating zinc roofs into memory,
While the soil drinks without question.
Maize rises like angry dust,
Crops sleep beneath the earth like buried wealth,
The old iroko keeps census of generations.
We call ourselves urban, as if asphalt
Could bleach the village from our blood,
As if language could divorce us from reality.
Every man carries an ancestral footpath,
Every woman a forgotten rib in the bones,
Every last name is a door to somewhere rural.
The city is only a village that learnt to disguise itself,
And civilisation, perhaps, is merely distance,
From the stream that first taught us to swim.
When the rain smells of the earth,
Listen keenly—the village speaks through you;
Everyone is a village man, even in hired suits.
From Vandeikya to Eko sluthers the same rhythm,
Only the midriff of imagination pats on them.
I stand where the earth is green and wide,
Under a clouded, dreaming sky.
The paddy whispers, row by row,
Of days that pass, and rivers that flow.
No buildings touch this quiet land,
Only wind and rain by nature's hand.
And in this green, so calm, so deep,
I sow the dreams I want to keep.
Days will pass, pages will fill,
Ten, twelve books, by sheer will.
If after all this suffering, I never gave up,
Why will you?
If I can, you can too.
I never imagined in my wildest dreams,
That I'd ever come to a village this small,
Where the mountains never end or so it seems,
And the songbirds herald the dawn with their call,
Life here is serene with no traffic to beat,
A golden sun and a star-filled sky to greet,
People caring and kind, and roads lined with trees,
Grateful to God for gifting me all of these.
A Lineage of Vultures from Hell
I crossed an ocean to unearth my roots,
To find the branches of my hidden tree.
Thirty-eight strangers wearing friendly suits,
Thirty-eight wolves who smiled to welcome me.
In that old village, secrets wore a mask,
Their cunning eyes disguised as open doors.
But stripping me was their intended task,
To leave me bleeding on their wooden floors.
"You're filthy rich," they hissed into the cold,
While robbing every treasure that I kept.
They traded blood for silver and for gold,
And showed no mercy.
Hamlet developed in stillness, stillness torn by warfare,
Warfare ricochets through jungles, jungles drop their brilliance,
Brilliance once lit the skies, skies now propagate blur,
Blur cries hangout the basin, basin bewails inside.
Inside the aggrieved acreage, acreage naked of its emerald,
Emerald fields turned to debris, debris wound the prospect,
Prospect of broken streams, streams dry and bare,
Bare mounts stand as spectators, spectators of desolation.
Desolation mists the firmament, firmament once peaceful and azure,
Azure dreams now are devastated, devastated hopes fictitious,
Fictitious peace feels gone, gone by the fire,
Fire of unending animosity, animosity leaves its tag.
Tag engraved in regret, regret pigments the terrain,
Terrain longs for rebirth, rebirth seeks renaissance,
Renaissance of mild restoration, restoration calls for nimble,
Nimble shall patch the village, village recovers its picture.
Poem by Mugisho N. T
By Phan Tan Hai
Writing a few lines of calligraphy,
praising the Blessed One—
the ink spreads like tears,
soaking gratitude deep into the soul.
Writing a few lines of calligraphy,
an offering to Thay of Plum Village;
lifting my head, I hear a crane’s cry
calling someone’s name across the sky.
From these few lines of calligraphy,
the strokes turn into a forest of flowers,
fragrancing each verse with sweetness—
the whole sky singing Dharma songs.
--- Dedication to Thay Nhat Hanh
The sun does not forget a village
because it is small.
It rises with the same ancient promise,
spilling gold on corrugated roofs,
threading light through narrow paths
where barefoot children chase morning.
It does not ask
how wide your roads are,
nor measure your worth
by the height of your buildings.
It finds the farmer first—
bent over red earth,
palms cracked like dry season soil,
still planting hope in rows.
It warms the quiet huts,
touches the well’s still water,
rests gently on the faces
that the world has not yet learned to name.
Even where maps grow thin
and voices travel no farther than dusk,
the sun arrives—
faithful, unannounced, complete.
For light knows no hierarchy.
It remembers what men forget:
that greatness is not in noise,
nor in crowded streets of fame—
but in the simple act of shining
everywhere,
on everyone,
without excuse.
Passing through the fields of Punjab,
sitting behind my father on a bike,
a sensation rose in me
at the call of a Ruston engine
breathing from a mud-bricked room.
Its call sounded as if from another world,
which touched my heart
and settled there forever—
one of the most unforgettable moments
of my life.
When I grew older,
I wandered from village to village
just to hear that iron nightingale
singing in the dawns of rural Punjab.
In my wanderings I discovered
that at night its echo,
deep in the quiet fields,
was like a spotted owlet
resting in the dark.
Now its music grows rare.
But whenever it reaches my ears,
the fields return—
golden crops bending in the wind,
silver canals under the sky,
and a little boy on a moving bike
holding his father
as the villages pass.
They came, put up the barriers
The village will be urbanized
The glass and cement area
They’ll set before our eyes
A block of shoe-box houses
More cruel teens around
One day your shirts and trousers
You'll find down on the ground
Must order electronic lock
Put on the fence a wire net
And get yourself a watchdog
In case you haven’t got it yet
Here comes the urban good
The village fears come true
Pay more for meds and food
Get less, and claim “I knew!”
Morning arrives wearing fog
like a warning it never removes.
The village wakes slowly,
as if afraid to be seen.
Roofs drip secrets.
Windows blink once, then look away.
Names here are spoken softly,
so they don’t attract teeth.
The mist is not empty
it watches.
It remembers everyone
who tried to leave.
Footsteps disappear
almost as soon as they’re made,
as if the road itself
is tired of hope.
A bell tolls somewhere unseen,
counting lives instead of hours.
Even prayer echoes back altered,
older, hungrier.
Yet roses still bloom
dark, stubborn,
their thorns fluent in survival.
Children learn early
how to smile without trust,
how to run without direction,
how to listen for wings.
At night, the fog thickens,
stitched with moonlight and dread.
The castle looms, patient,
a thought that refuses to die.
But still
a candle is lit.
A door is barred.
A story is whispered.
In Barovia,
hope does not shine.
It smolders
quiet, defiant,
waiting for the mist
to blink first.
Rooftops stitched with snow
Lean against a sky of cobalt and ash
Alleys fold into themselves
Cobblestones polished by countless steps
Windows shuttered holding stories like quiet breath
Smoke drifts from chimneys
And lingers in the crisp mountain air
Curling around timbered walls
That lean close protective patient
Gingerbread scents rise from small cafés
Mixing with the scent of pine and frost
Mountains cradle the town
Their shadowed shoulders pressing close
Time stretching around rooftops and river bends
Slow crooked and still alive
I walk alone on the beach,
Emerald waves rise and fall, lapping on the sandy shore,
So many beach-lovers walk together,
Their faces beaming with love and adoration,
I walk alone on the sand barefoot,
Collect shells of unique sizes and shapes,
I converse with you about the roaring sea,
The whistling wind, the multi-coloured sand,
you are far away, but
You are with me.
Years and years passed away listlessly,
Struggles in our life did not let us be together,
A love so strong, and powerful,
I see you in my dreams,
And nothing else matters.
I paint on my easel with a wistful heart,
Sceneries of long-lost past,
As if we lived in a fantasy,
The little quaint village we grew up in,
The ambrosial garden we frolicked around,
The magical swing we shared and
The favourite books we pored over.
Your love pulls me to a dreamy past,
Tender days which will never be erased,
Solitary life at present remains serene with your thoughts,
Future is undetermined, life will choose its course,
Only I know wherever you are, you are mine.
Santa’s village was on the edge of reconstruction and renovation.
the elves were excited, they held a parade and massive celebration.
Electronics, cell phones and I-pads are sought by children of today.
The workshop was full of antiquated equipment to toss away.
No one wanted wooden blocks or dolls that talk or wiggle.
They still had a filing cabinet of Barbie dolls that had a giggle.
Super hero items are now the absolute must-have rage.
They needed to delete obsolete toys that never reached a finished stage.
Santa’s reindeers were dancing around all joyful too.
They were on permanent break, for deliveries now came through Lou.
Lou was the head elf, and a big proponent of Amazon Prime.
So the reindeers could lay around and dine, all of the time.
Upon green hills where gentle breezes play,
A village wakes to greet the golden light.
No city horns disturb the break of day,
Just birds that sing and skies serenely bright.
The air is crisp, each breath a gift so pure,
With streams that babble secrets as they run.
Life moves in rhythms peaceful and demure,
Unhurried hours beneath the warming sun.
Fields stretch in green, and laughter fills the air,
Neighbors share stories by the fireside’s glow.
No restless race, no burdens hard to bear,
Just simple joys that only dreamers know.
Far, far away from crowds that rush and strive,
Here, hearts find peace and truly learn to thrive.
© 2025 Pastor Emmanuel Serto
Picture a dusty village road
Where two stubborn goats
One older full of pride
Another younger and very agile
Face each other on a narrow bridge
Neither want to back down
They lock horns in front of the whole village
Each claiming the right of way
On the edges, villager elders watched on
Placing bets on who fights better
Turning merchants for their goods
Whilst the drums of propaganda beats on.
But the bridge
thin and weary from the weight
begins to crack beneath their show down
and when it breaks won’t the whole village bleed from the fall?
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