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The blacksmith is back to the furnace
His knife is not sharp enough
Fisherman haws taken a retreat
His shack mending the wide eyed nets
The masquerade is gone back
To the ritual house to sit
In a circular row with ancestors
Even mother hen with chicks at their nest
A waits the tomorrow, it will be tales
Told by footprints on the dunes of time
The dust settled and people buoyed or sapped
A lizard nodes for the umpteenth
He! The legate of an Iroko cap
The spiral coil of an idiot
Cannot hid its Idiot-itude
As the saggy jaw of the shamed
Remains
Eloquent tale of Victor and Vanquish
By this time tomorrow, it will be history
Then town crier sets for new task
Many moons have passed
But distance gone bye recedes
Distance to cover retreats
And now is in quandary
Accomplishments or aspirations
Now is the full colour bloom
Waiting for workers and harvesters
By next-tomorrow we check the score-board
For history and ahistory.
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