How often stealthy rats squirmed about the Hallway. Harmattan blew colder than the warm heat of My sitting room hearth. I miss those awkward squeaks these days, And the creaking errieness of my door, Felt like,harmattan was inviting some Saturnine stranger to cook my needless oats. Festac streets at night glowed with misty fog, Giving the streetlights this sort of luminous Strangeness. The furling greenness of my compound Bitterleaf now overgrown,seemed to be Peeking at me every night. The profound sounds of night crickets and Twinkling lights of those fireflies aided Silence much less. As for the night sky,ever pale as unseen But felt sadness that failed not to hallow her Majesty - the white-bright moon. Yet the star studded few lines and boundaries - tall cranes and giant masts All lost their formidable heights in the Seemingly hazy,plain clouds of midnight stay. It brought upon my lips benign boils and made my nostrils as dry tunnels. My eyes were constantly worried with rubbing itches that turned them slightly red. Although I am all alone to myself most passing days, To nobody's surprise - the harmattan refuses To efface still.