Shadows
Fall behind the mud huts
They paint soulful images,
Like the web tent of a black widow
Hanging like a carefree skeleton
And the brown stains from hands
Old or fresh which design the walls
Silhouettes
Fall behind the palm trees
They draw strange figures,
One like the village masquerade
which dance heartily on happy festivals
The other like the mad man
who travelled all about the hamlet
The sun travel home after the days work
And all we have become is an airy evening
Discover more from Oke’s Musings: Poetry, People and Places
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