Be like the road itself, a long slithering tar in the sun.
Burn the midnight ointment in the wick end of questings.
Climb and soothe, blaze the earth into caverns of seething sights,
And fade with night like a receding haze at the founts of reason.
Be like the road. Bend on carcasses of mangled resistances.
Shoot through the valleys of dearth, and patiently find.
Glide in the fresh breath of daybreak on rock hills and caves,
And dance with dusk amidst forests pregnant with missive gems.
Dare along the courses of delights across a far unending street.
Be like the road itself, eternally trudging like light restless feet.
(c)| July 2010
* Title taken from Wole Soyinka’s play The Road.

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