Poetry may come in the form of flowing water,That tells of no serious thing in particular;But about the few that wash others’ feetAnd the wild that calls the forest home,It chats of fauns that hide in crevicesWhere waterfalls are happy to fall in currents,Rushing, flowing in streams and slow rivers, Out of sight, far away from hamlets,Planting […]
Categories
Oke Iroegbu's Blog 