By Yero Jallow
It’s lonely, so many lonely songs. Aloud though it seems,
their voices with truth are heard but their waves dispersed.
The night whisked away heavily loaded with its burden,
trust’s niche of bondage diffused into thin air,
with sounds of rustling leaves fluting aloud,
awful crying of the croaking frogs by the ponds,
and crawling serpents in their little holes.
Voices in uproar while the world is gloom,
what an awful night with lonely songs
their voices with truth are heard but their waves are dispersed.