wordings of the soul

Moonlight In Africa By Olaitan Victor Olanrewaju

POSTED 09/12/2018 13:33
1585 Reads Moonlight In Africa By Olaitan Victor Olanrewaju, Poetry on Tushstories
I could recall the days of our Fathers,
When they gathered at the feet of their mothers;
To listen to tales and fables of old
Of mighty heroes so strong and bold.

I could recall the moonlit night,
When our fathers would jump a height.
With shouts of merry and songs ululating,
Till their voices crack and croak with grating.

I could recall the moonlight days,
When lovers meet and roll in the hays.
Alone together with clouds as roof
To whisper of moments gone in a poof.

I could recall the moony nights,
When the old view the sights
Which flashes the moments of youth
When sneaking to see the beauty in the booth.

I could recall by the light of moon,
Mothers to their babies croon.
Humming a lullaby,
Maybe a lulling lullaby.

A time children builds the sands,
Regally accoutered in their dirty pants.
And maidens fair by the streams
Chattering about the husband of their dreams.

An age men proudly wrestle,
With chests like pounding pestle.
Charging like a bull,
With a push or a pull.

I could recall the poetic bards sing,
Honeyed songs with drums and not a string.
A melody to make the head swell
And perform feats worthy a squirrel.

I could recall when men with hoe,
Proudly to the farm with wives in toe;
Earn a living from the rich dark soil
And hike to markets with the rewards of toil.

I could recall the smith in the forge
With muscles and veins from tunic bulge
Who from ores iron smelt
Pumping the bellows as metals melt.

A time when Hunters brave and bold,
Dares the beasts in the jungles old.
Dragging along their kills with pride
To win at least the hands of a bride.

For gone is the day
When kings hold sway.
Mighty warriors with such a power,
That even witches before them cower.

I tremble with rage
Recalling the lost age.
A moment of gold,
So treasured I'm told.

For the moments so cherished,
Is all but perished
And left to memories
Recounted as stories.

A time we listen to mythical mysteries,
And legends steeped in our people's histories.
But when I deem measure in gross,
Could only descry and decry what a loss.

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