By: Chika Obi
Level: 1
(1 votes, average: 4.00 out of 5)
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As the wind drops by
A sensation it drags along
A tickling of the unseen mind
Popping out objects of the admired past
Indeed a desert, for the gentle soul.
Sitting next to the burning sticks
Organized by the presence of a tripod stand
The skin feels the warmth of the flames
As the hairs lay down in relaxation
Through the pores, memories fly in
Memories of when the mind was plain
And same harbored less evil
Words would climb on each other
And wouldn’t see the light of the following day
Almost immediately, cordiality would be revived
Years ago, we had no boots,
Yet several hours we spent, playing soccer
We were both the players and the referee
FIFA wasn’t existent to guide us
With bare bodies, the object we tossed around
On the pages of history books
We got to learn of the years
When the colonial masters
Played the piper on our soil
And our people couldn’t help
But dance to the tune
Stories we were told of decades past
When our fathers got stuck on the tree tops
On sighting the tax officers
At the remembrance of a few shillings
They briskly got on their toes
(1 votes, average: 4.00 out of 5)Loading...
Chika Obi is a young man with a strong penchant for writing. He has the intention of carving a niche for himself and being passionate about writing; he intends to touch the world through same.
Nice piece of writing.