My Iro is tethered to a large chunk of weathered rock
That reared its nodular head from time to time
Having conquered gravity
It says we will take off and fly
I ask, “where are your wings?”
It counters, “how do you stand on thin air?”
Yes it is thin air. I do not know how but
I stand as though I were on firm ground
It chuckles, “what if I said your Iro is threadbare?”
Well, that I wouldn’t understand for my eyes
Still perceive the wavy lines that join fabric to fabric
I say, “they would pass as firm.”
If I will and you will view things as us,
Shall we not leap from heights to heights?
Your Iro a palanquin for us both
The mountains quivering as our combined weights
Shear off piece after piece of red earth,
Petechiae on your black feet
The mountains levelling before our very eyes.
Then, we would be winged heights
My Iro a palanquin borne on thin air
Tethered to my companion
The one with the nodular head
The ONE, the sword of the spirit
Our combined weights level the mountains
The blade struck deep into the marrow of the hills,
Our platform for ascent, we exploit the might of its resilience
A propeller we’ve got , galloping through thin air
As though we were on firm ground
Acceleration, the palanquin bearer
The clouds part ways like the two – leaved gates
We ascend in leaps
My Iro is a palanquin
We are winged heights.
Awoyemi Omowunmi