Prose

Butterflies

Butterflies
As howling gale of recession blows,
The butterflies drizzle out of their tracts,
Dissolute,
Weary,
To unknown destinations.

They are harshly beaten,
By the wind of lack.
Yesterday is today,
Today is tomorrow without bread.

Lifeless promises without fruits,
Gari
Water;
And salt in our amora soup.

When will promises produce good fruits?
When will the butterflies come home smiling?
When will love rule
Actions of men?

Huge perfidy,
Dances Odu Songs.

(C) Umar Osabo

August 2018

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