Come now, today we woo a barren sky,

       And when she hears you sing she will bear fruit.

Tell her the world waits for her to yield

      Make a promise to baptize her offspring with her labour.

We shall ask stone to become bread, and we shall.

       Cast the net for some fish and light a match. Perhaps,

We’ll also hear the BBC’s forecast of the weather. Whatever it is,

       These skies will hear us whisper, she’ll hear our craggy, hoarse voices.

Murder your roses my dear fellow for tonight we rise against our destiny,

       Kiss away those small feverish weddings of pleasure and pain.

The only tea we drink today is that thick black brew which knows no spouse.

      We will deceive these players with their deck of cards.

And when she begins to birth, that blue wench called the sky,

      Tell Ousmane to bring his calabash of herbs and a pot of balm.

The child will need to be soothed. The mother too. 

     What a joy we shall witness when we see libation. But first, let us woo a barren sky.

(c) Iroaganachi Nnamdi Christopher 16th June, 2012.