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Poetry
Isa Muhammad Inuwa
She Rests
On the third day of her passing
I saw mother
By the shrubs of Paradise
smiling
Eating an apple
The apple, as big as
the earthen water pot
of our heath –
I thought it was the fruit
Of her five daily prayers
Performed, while on earth
On the seventh day
I saw her eating
A jumbo sized water-melon
Like a large, un-severed,
Calabash gourd –
I thought it was the yield
Of her month-long fasting
Every year
On the fortieth day
I saw her holding a jug
As big as our earthly bucket,
Waiting to collect her portion
Of milk –
Then, a green bird flew in and
Whispered to her;
Two Angels appeared and
Opened the bank of
The milk river.
I thought the milk was
The reward from prayers and alms
Of relations and well wishers
For the repose of her soul -
In her other hand,
She held a fresh olive stem
With fruits fresh and big
Like Ostrich eggs –
On the hundredth day
I saw her lying on a golden bed –
Having a siesta
Resting from ordeals and
Travails encountered on earth.
Sun
Every morning
Our Orange rises
From the East and
Like a single bead
On a single thread
Rolls in line
To the West
We don't need a knife
To slice it to pieces
For parts of the world
To share its juice
Our Orange is big enough -
By the time it is
Up in the horizon
It suffices everyone and everywhere.
Its rays, its warmth, its light
nourishes all
It rolls down
To set in the East, and rolls
stretching its strands to the South and the
North
Again and again and again.
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