The Hand With The Night Lantern!

A tribute to a story of a woman whom I had read his story-Madam Ekundayo on Linkedin. I put myself out knowing him as one of his nearby neighbors to evoke some sense of poetic lines for her.

Darkness clout,
...even.....if the light simmers,
Asked me why...when...how?
Places of where...which...whose
Of...time...day...night...seasons
Seek...of a eyes of a woman,
Whom we all relies heavily,
To lead us,rotten reeks
As we struggle with the sink,
Not of the common creeks,
Rather, the bare ground of dust.
We toil, soil albeitly,
Our sod of mistakes.

There is this woman,
Beacons light 💡 forth,
We darkly hounded,
Whom fate of whims,
Whips whispering whack,
Isn't life lives likewise for you?
Weighs or whether not,
Walter us with her wedge shoes,
Daily crecendoed penury, penance,
Tomorrow, famine, farmished, fark
Can't respite relieve rustling?
We down of the trodden,
since we are of the trek recluse.

A woman,
Old the  ageing age,
Holds the lantern forth,
 follow behind ravenous rage
we of  the  lost coins,
From the palms of origins,
 Behind her solace torch,
 Us to the ark of covenant,
Forth in her household,
Of many hinged fateous files,
Of the folds of nooks, crannies,
Whom sheltered her shield,
Over the seasons of years,
Over the years of scourge,
Hovering sucking souls.


Our king wasn't biblical David,
Whom she read from the colourful,
Of whom she said was holy stories,
We  sprout of the pagans enables,
The sins of our forefathers
Maybe we face the brute,
Mama said nay nor nil,
Her words are wisdom,
Let not our eyes close,
Least hunger hurt us,
Least fright fackled us,
Compact is her mission.

Her hope 🙏 is our hold,
Her tread is our threshold,
Her garment is our garland,
Her seeing of us is a sight behold,
Much of all of ours,
Her lantern is the pattern toes,
For we eyes seek her eyes.

An assailed fruits gathered, 
In our young nascent foibles,
Feathered fatherless heirlooms,
Where each of birthed dilemma,
Mama will see and seek forth,
Forming a forclose colony,
From the evils of  kinsmen,
From the envious of neighbours.

What draws lingering fondly,
Is the way her weak hands,
Especially the right hand,
Grips a  drab coloured lantern,
As she treads around seeing, 
How we have fared sleeping,
In our journey against odds,
How we geared on flagging,
Onwards never backwards,
In here, it is life living,
We have nothing death,
 Thou banished you,
Anguish, Agony!

If not so but so,
We have a angelic mother,
Celestial if keenly eyed,
The same face of her mention,
She always read from her book,
Bows, kneel her christship,
We even said the lord's prayer,
We even recite the verses,
Unlike our folks' incantations,
Dread elusive, Drink water of life.

Recently, she passed away,
Heartbroken was the mourners,
Of the kind village Samaritan,
Called Mama Ekundayo, 
A woman holds rust metal,
Turns golden gold of brass,
picks the shady woven basket,
Oddly at wilful wish,
The open branches knotted back,
Fresh like morning dew,
The eyes she see crying,
Draw peace from her body,
The worst days aren't doom,
For many of the much just,
Because sheer is she.