The Dead Year
That year that was very young, With new dreams and aspirations. I only close my eyes and open them, All I could see is a very old man.
A old man with many wills untouched. Soon he will die to rise new, And he will born new goals and plans. Some short legs and some long legs.
Sounds like guns and bombs in the air, Musicians and DJs will collect their tips, And the atmosphere chorusing, But a poet is a lone stander.
I see children chasing fowls everywhere. Chickens are scared of groundnut oil, Roaches stop dining with them long ago, And rams will stop eating grasses soon, Because we are about to bury a dead year, Raising roofs and dust like no other deads before.
We will see the hand of the clock soon, Clocking from the dead hand to new one. Soon we will all rise on top of our voices, Shout loud, we made it, like the only first time. And we are celebrating us getting old too, Those new years of yesterday,are old men of today, Because if a year die, another will bury it.
-Warri Stanley.