Stream had flowd from the Windows of my eyes
Strange swords had parted my heart,
For that tree planted in the garden by nature,
That tree of mine I awaited for it fruits to ripe,
Pulled and destroyed by the sudden storm at night,
Now, which land would I plant again?
Where would I see that precious fruits of mine?
Which light would I use to enter that garden at night?
Which wrapper would I use in clearing the flood that flowed from my eyes?
Which wall would I lean in removing the arrows?
When would I set my eyes in that natural tree of mine?
Is it how storm destroys precious gift of nature?
O what would say about that precious tree planted by nature?
Where would I find a seed for replanting?
O good night at dawn!!
Mortals are nothing but air.





© Nwankwo Johnson C.