By: Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

Tears of the Sun

It’s just another Christmas Day.
When birds twittered freely away;
I sat alone upon the desolate grave
Where flowers lie and pebbles rave.

The sun pierced its tearful rays
Upon the cloudy hills and matted leaves;
Gone were those brighter days
When men wore shirts with sleeves.

The spires of trees glimmer in the cloudy sky
Above dewy rooftops and black chimneys
Where half-lit candles and a pendant fly
Flicker in the breath of bended knees

The sun stared down and let out a sigh
Echoing round the garden and beyond,
And wished it were not so high
To ground the mountains or smite the world.

How its light seems to bless the earth
In the vicious grips of its detractors,
Who, as curtains fall or windows shut
Kill the ground with vile reactors.

Dance not for me when I shine
The rays are no glory but my tears,
Forests burn, and flowers decline
I cannot smile but vent my fears.

I Will Shoot Down My Stars

When I wait for my stars to fall,
nothing happens,
when I ask questions,
I do not receive answers;
if I ask for a garment,
they will send me a folded cloth;
I wear cloth as a garment.

Waiting is suicidal for my dreams
which will never come true
on the armpits of nothing;
but when I make my hay.
Perhaps my sun will thunder,
lightning may follow,
or maybe rain.

Waiting is a foul game,
comfort is lazy;
I will not be lazily comfortable,
moving between today and today,
without making the next move forward,
awaiting for the miracle of time
to slap luck on my lap.

I can wait for the rain to dowse
the raging fire in my heart;
I cannot wait for the fire to extinguish
the silent light in my house;
by contrast, I will shoot water down,
enjoy the freedom of choice,
the dream of millions slumped into a cage.

Else I will rebuild my house,
have new children in old age;
I will plant new seeds, new hope,
because I want to survive,
impregnate the moment with the future;
I will export anger elsewhere,
and live a quiet dotting man.

After God visited me,
I acquired the strength to lose my illusions
and learned to shoot down my stars,
with the clarinet, He left behind,
the lips He sewed into my mouth;
the hands He propelled like a plane,
set in my eyes, their beauty.

So I will no longer stumble
down the valley of Sunset,
nor will I drift again like a piece of wood,
the clamour of decision is a splash of water
drenching me with certainty and a sense of purpose,
so I cannot wait for my star to shine
but grip the clarinet and shoot it down instead.

If I Decide to Die

I will never copy myself in the land of the living,
if, at the end of my struggles and pains,
I decide to change the planet or die;
if I hurry toward the mountain peaks,
from where I watch the evening sun
kiss the sky as though it were the river,
losing hope to resurface tomorrow,
when it is night and too dark for faith,
I would travel backward to the bough of time.
There is a deep valley at the base of the hill,
and I intend to seek out my hidden destiny there,
but if I decide to return unscathed,
I shall be the sea ravaging its rocks.
Predicting my return is a tricky thing,
when bones crack up at the flick of a feather,
or bodies drop at the song of the raven.
I took my time to study the depth of the grave,
to master the art of resurrection from its heaviest lid;
now I know that without pulling the faintest sigh,
I shall leave the gravel swiftly aside.
Neither will dying be a menace to the air
searching for hearts to pulsate and reactivate;
I have nothing against the storms of yesterday,
the sky must learn to police the clouds,
there will be enough dry bones and broken bodies
to send back to life before the next spring starts.
If I were among those who decide to die,
I will be among the glorious returnees.