Every first hour of dawn. In the torn gut of this town Limpid whales pout wine bellies and weaklings die. Alive.
Gray spaces on walls mark the remnants of family names They brag like moist tags tale soaked, incomplete.
The South wind so gravid with echoes barely blows -- murmurs can be heard in the night-filled day like wails from a thousand hounds howling away in travail. The nights have no moons Only stars govern the light.
Ah Idiogbolu! Wake up from your slumber The five founding fathers who set-out at sunset tripped and fell beneath the oak! Their houses, haunted, stand uninhabited till date the roofs rustle still, hard with ghostly tremors, When the dead visit and find no one home.