A peace permeates my heart
lights gleam in my eyes
when I feed the little birds
feel all darkness soon dies.

Disappear chunks of my woes
a smile breaks on my lips
as I hold them warm n close
my fingers kiss their beaks.

A bliss they give without price
that dissolve my aches n pains
when I look deep in their eyes
touch there a divine innocence.

In rough tides my solace
rescuer from life’s quicksand
they import me a happiness
while pecking from my joyous hand.

So you think you know me,
For I tell you all I feel?

Enn Omane (my dearest),
I haven't even begun to say
What I fail to feel.

The writer's table is vacant.
The Poet's papers fly amok.
The Painter's brush is stuck in hardened paint..
Pictures have been pulled down
and burnt with the fire of intolerance.
Theatres have been vandalised
and stages are silent, empty.
The jobless critic looks for a prey,
hence, there are fewer flies and mosquitoes

The point has been proved
You do we say, we say you do
for our feet are sticky with squishy remains
of pens and easels and words...
No songs will be written, no tales told
We live with fire, in fire, by fire
What else can we do but burn?
We equate Force with Peace, so,
Don't ask - where are the Artists?

The Artists are dead.