The world is a plain sheet
That needs to be arrayed
With morphemes, words, sentences and languages.

The world is a war field
Where we do not array bullets in riffles
But inks triggered by our heart
Through a ball point pen.

The world is a market place
Where we batter calligraphy for bread and wine;
Like trading kola-nut for cowries.

The world is a grave a tomb, an open sepulcher
Where the flesh and souls of man is laid;
Doctors, Philosophers, Engineers, even I, a literatis
But I have aforetime immortalized myself. I am a literati.