Poets as Lovers
I assume all poets are lovers. So every poet love can be compared to a hysterical character. I put it thus: a poet’s love is like a crescendo, other times it goes decrescendo or fairly in between. It may be lenient, sometimes it’s wild! So pay attention to your impressions, my friends.
Poetry is an art of love. Most words said in heartbreaks and disheartening times are a result of love. Let’s be happy though, it’s a plus to have love, an extraordinary virtue to possess.
I’m musing tonight, like a mad lover, disappointed by Africa’s rulers who have no clue of what leadership is about and wouldn’t want to give the youth a chance to decide their future. When I think about these selfish leaders, I feel both mad and sad. I’m mad because of corruption, nepotism and insecurity. I’m sad because I can’t do more than write how awful I feel. The underlying theme is my love for my homeland which irresponsible governments are abusing.
Well, the receding rains return all good things and memories, but for hope on vain promises. Good night everyone.
Rain Returns All
Rain is waking things
Grasslands are green,
Bouquets are impressive,
Tree leaves survive –
Everything, all returning
Except for promises vain