When the bushes of our black mother.
Lay uncut,
And we waddled about with newly weaned feet.
A hand sweated with a ferocious pen,
Wisdom was written,
One that wore colours of different flags,
As time flew by.
With the lips of the pen,
He spoke words that slashed at the backward bushes,
Surrounding our green and white mother.
A sword borne from the womb of the muse,
A sword that glittered,
In the midst of great water.
And yes men say,
The words so great from a man so small.
And as time raced by,
The beautiful ones were born,
And each a nod gave,
To one whose pen prophesied.
But then Fate's wind blew,
In winged arms,
His soul flew,
Leaving memories of a mind,
That left prints on life's shore.
Adieu I'll say,
But you, i and all know,
Adieu is too short a goodbye.
Melody Kuku
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-tribute-to-chinua-achebe/
