Poem: Lassie's Hands Are Cold

Your hands are cold,

My little lassie,

You knock on hells door for too long,

Don't jolt death with these tender hands,

I can still taste your sentiments,

Like tears in wine,

I must have more,

 

Your fragile mind may be clouded,

You took a fools errand,

But as little as you are,

A hawk to a chick is another hen,

They are vicious men,

 

Malicious men,

You stole a fine rose with no thorns,

Strewn her petals along,

My vitriol, upon you it rains,

I'm stone-hearted,

 

Too long I've been beguiled by your fairy tales,

Hate, I plunge deep in me,

Cursed songs,

I ululate on thee,

 

Someday,

The comets shall bleed for me,

Darkest tears of my soul,

Fiery like the spirit of a palm tree,

I will drink and weep myriads,

In the eyes of the wicked,

When justice prevails,

 

I'm a wounded bird you can't nourish,

Your acts are impiety against God,

At last, God is on my side,

Bitter enemies of my very body,

May your paths be muddy,

 

O' Amanyo,

 Light of the sun,

May death pardon your smile,

Through the yon miles of eternity, 

 

And little lassie passed,

And all men are vicious and cursed,

In the labyrinth of hell they duel,

yet sweet, bitter and sharp,

In their puny lives,

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Author: Bawa Anyame Sadique

I’m Bawa Anyame Sadique, and am a radical person. Writing poems is a way I channel emotions into art. The source of my inspiration is everywhere. I got involved in poetry because it's a medium, through which complex information can be coded in few lines of metaphor. I'm 28 years old, working for GWCL as a water treatment operator and a lab technician. Sadickimin@gmail.com