Some Parts of Culture

Mornings of Ibo

The sun took a pause,
a dozen of its lines spoke proverbs.
Tears borrowed a sense or earth’s red.
In the end, our eyes looked to say
‘Hands are for kings and neighbors,
for bloodshed and debts.
Cowries of mirth are outbursts of time.’
The wall still sneezed to wake us
before goatskin died with its worth,
before villages respected the ill-fated morning

Ruddapoet [TRCP]