Chibuike Ukah

Needless throwing stones at the silent sky
when we can spice up our lives for the moon to drink
and reel on the floor of the galaxies,
intoxicated with the juices of our memories;
or pour libations on the altar of the stars
when days elapsed, and we were not dead
with excitements that gripped our glory.
So much remains undone and unknown
that we raise our hands to scribble on the sun
the things that the leaves would love to hear,
like how jolly the sand danced at the inscription on the air
and how bees have a memory better than every radar.
There is so much madness in our nature
that sanity would be a Guinea pig in a clothing store.
Even our shadow that hits some scenic stones
or our silhouettes that write on the placards of the sky
would memorise the bits of our bodies for posterity
and make permanence a second universe.
Eternity is a mountain worthy of climbing,
but gratitude for these light afflictions
that give rise to a sea of blessings
is a nature closer to the things we worship.
Though I have confirmed from the night
that the scroll of memory accepts no mundane eraser,
I have reconstructed a pyramid of storage
for those born with a perfect skull sieve;
that the whistleblowing wind, in all its temerity
cannot employ the favour of darkness
to wash off the surface of our thoughts.
Yet, when everything fails, stones will rise like storms
and rewrite the landscape with our hearts.