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The moon kisses the sea,
Darkness swallow the last rays of moonlight.
The horizons laugh heartily,
As it watches the romance of the seas with the moon.

The rainbow rising from the ocean makes the cloud ecstatic.
The nile sparkled under the ever watching eyes of the sun,
The earth is engulfed with fantasies that only the blind can see.

The rain cuddled me with it's cold droplets,
My head feels the painful pleasure of memories flight.
I struggle with the grasp of internal strikes assured by the doctor they would soon take a nuptial flight.

Time runs with a speed that empties the oceans.
Time's depth is infinte i said feebly as age steadily ate up my boyish vigour.
I can't walk foward without taking flowers from memories lane.

When the light of our youth is extinguished by the rivers of time,
And our hair is painted white by nature's design.
Let the cloud from the evaporation of our memories today,
Rain on us affection and care in those lonely days.
Dedicated to the first girl i ever loved.
Many sages across the ages,
have sought for a way to define love.
They came up with books of many pages,
many of which were for the wages.

As I wallow in the depth of its definition,
Let this line caress your imagination.
As we worship in the sanctuary of affection,
Let the rivers of passion inspire our decisions.

Love is an attraction,
The earth is held to its orbit by an attractive force.
Can we say love holds the earth?

Love is unjust,
It doesn't act according to contract
It steps in where duty demands
and fight till the end without retreat.
Oh love endures!

Love is not a word,
It acts from the depth of its compassion.
Love doesn't grow old,
It rekindles with every smile, touch and shared passion.
Love will lead you home,
no matter how far you've strayed into the arms of fallacious propagation.
Love will give you warmth,
when cuddled by the frost of discrimination.
Love will be your temple,
irrespective of your religious affiliation.
Dedicated to the loving memories of my father Late Pst Ejiro Sajini. I miss you so much
twelve strikes calls the river
to run on the peach silk beds
to pool on white cotton covers
one strike calls the gut-punching
the anger and the screaming
to burn the sins of the day before
two strikes calls the dark haze
slowly beckoned
by the tiring tirade against my soul
three cents to bet
that i might wake up the next day

— The End —