“DEAD-CORN-TREE” IN THE BELLY OF THE WILD
A day in Yankari is the pages of unopened books//
A life to live yet unspent // Probably the dream of a
desert forest // The way every farmer would expect
harvest in the middle of the summer without rainfall.
I watched the green weeds / growing into yellow lilies //
Like the sky // switching colours in between day & night //
Puzzled I got // by the chameleonic nature of the forest//
that keeps changing constantly at the blink of an eye.
Weeds finally grown into giant grasses & cultivars genetically
matured to be stoical trees // After surviving the northern
parching sun with razor rays // sharp enough to tear bodies
apart // & time slowly buried the disintegrated fallen species.
Could the wilds be the pests & predators? // Probably they feasted
on the virgin forest bit by bit // farming days slackened & outdated
into mismanaged seasons // greedy birds sucking unripe fruits //
Bush rat eating the roots of the trees that provided shelter for them.
The "corn-tree" planted by sweats/ tears/ & bloods is now what
Snakes engulf as prey// Monkeys now proudly swallow bucks in
place of the naturally occurring bananas // while the elephants
in the room of power officialize silence as their primary language.
The "corn-tree" is now the sad forest growing in the belly
of the wilds // Like the seed planted in a glass jar // that
never sees the sun nor water to grow // just still in a windless
darkness / left to retard / stunt / grope & choke till death comes.
©® Jamiu Ahmed
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