In these streets,
far-flung is the mesh of human decline,
connected by the hue of scorn – struggle.
Somewhere,
a child stands amused,
tray of rotten plantain perched on his head,
golden flies clapping in applause.
A vulcanizer etches a path on a tyre,
singing a fable of his own.
Some adults mount a forgotten grave,
soliloquizing from their belly,
dazed by their past.
To and fro,
in the earthly reconcile,
feet sweep past,
concealing fright and feelings.
Flies, stench, and darkness fill
whatever vacuum remains.
( Mokola – Tyre And Siddon )
