Gyrations...

Gbogbo ilu,

in wrinkled gyrations,

tapped into the sounds of tattered drums...

who cares if the beaded waists are no longer

responsive,

the gongs and the songs bound in scattered steps,

beckoning....

portmanteau of waists;

who is going to pick dispersed beads unthreaded

from the jaded waists?

II

you can still remember

the fanned dusts trailing relunctant feet

whereas,

tattered tears of childlessness,

of poor harvests,

of crippled expectations

and Gbogbo Ilu

can still celebrate

even when the gorged harvests are nurtured

on patched ridges.

III

but where are the manicured voices,

where are the strewn claps

that would nudge

Gbogbo Ilu

into frenzy of laughters once again;

those laughters long lost in drenches of tears.