My cloud bleed with rain
The rivers washed away my path
How then shall thy tale to tell,
Of how much I was left at the mouth of thy river?
Soft word had soften thy tongue with vain talk,
A leaping lion lay cripple
Like a sleeping child in cradle.
Love not what we see through;
The eye of a heddle.
I will await for my lover
Until thy night was over.
Prince Ojoka
©princeojok
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