The rain-Gods should
Give this greenhorn a reason
To why pain could
Appear this green-corn season,
Which baboon will make a sound
If the rich moon cannot be found?
Sometimes we play all day
Making sure that the clay
Does not decay,
But now our rock had bend
And who will lock and mend,
Ah, send the Gods a plea,
And it will end the cods a sea,
For the fear of might is oppression
Whiles the tear of night of derision
But nothing inside will look so strong
If something outside looks so wrong
Is this ice of life so conscious?
Maybe the price of life is so precious,
Men of Kush!
Have a pen for push
And never harm the Gods arm,
For their charm grows your farm,
The debtors have broken the palm-vine
Causing the ancestors to drink the palmwine
Indeed, what life sees as pain,
Must be given to death to explain.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
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