Passenger.


For Chinua Achebe
The sun withdraws its yellow eye and you gave in slowly to a new dawn of old parturition; it has been known, when man closes his last eye, he has kicked th' bucket.


His Black Soul, who was his black boy has lived on this hill of shedd'ng rocks 'n' our soul has left us, when he did. were we not to live as memories? we're pilgrims in the credo of living.
What essence does he speaks, if not from him? we have barrels of wine and our cups are swept by the wind, yet we drink all our passion and hold our knuckles against our fist.


Was it not here, that things fall 'part? and we close both eye, to see 'is eye — and we think of thought, and what 's left. is it not unwell, that while we entrust ourselves here, we're pilgrims?
Beloveds, wander as the cloud ev'n at its silent rumble. the constellations is in our palm, are we not the Black Boy he left? life rests not in shroud, but its breath.


You're gone inner and outer, gone. no moon, no ground, no sky, no you. and we are not close to be far; for, we're the shadow of your books and the murmuring of dry dust.


If the cage is kept, is the bird of his lips rent, or his wings plucked as bitter fruits? sweetness, is it not in struggle, as you did for us? is it not in the drunkenness
of the wetting mud? it is seen in the smooth weft of looming clouds and the emptiness of rain in a pregnant cloud. yet, is it not this life that you've lived, and we'll live?




Credit: "words from the innocent mind" Akinwale Peace Akindayo Philip Peace

source: https://stefanbook..com/2018/06/passenger-for-chinua-achebe.html