Who wounded it, who lent the pale moon scars?
Desert sands are oft hurt by hoofs of raindrops
But those wounds leave no scars; for the wind
Arrives and dress both the wound and its scar,
None knows again if the desert was hit by rain,
Aye echo of epic song the rain sang is no more
But who can dress scars sculpted on the moon?
Who can dress scar of hill hurt by war’s hoof?

Beneath whispers of trees and sighs of zephyrs,
Amid hour daylight was appareled in its shroud,
Sprigs and men close to falling asleep forever,
Atop hilltop that smiled with comeliest petals,
We exhaled tales at dusk on the sole hill nearby,
Drinking palm-wine drops, breaking kola-nuts
In remembrance of what canny artist kindles
The artwork on the merry night ether’s candle-

At times we blame that Eternal Finger yonder-
One old man whose eyes tame countless books,
An encyclopedia warped in form of an old man,
He told our ponder that our wonder is landforms-
Our lips turned servants serving holy arguments,
Sowing wind, reaping storms of tuneless voices,
Smiling at thrill from madness reaped beneath
The uncertain nigh lightless light of the moon-

White clouds fled sky, dark clouds perched it
And the dark war rained on us from the cloud,
Descending with paces swift as an ireful devil-
Each hoof of war-drop held chisels, bruised hill,
Aye, but war is a damsel pregnant with amity-
Today the fetus is delivered from war’s womb,
Our wounded land has healed well from bruises-
O wounds are healed, who can dress the scars? 

The sole hill nigh has been devoured by a bomb,
Trees that once whispered fell by another bomb-
Petals are off hilltop, ‘tis now crowned by grass-
No one breaks kola-nut or drinks wine anymore
In remembrance of artist who painted moon-scar,
All left is remembrance of the war, that sculptor
That reshaped our fair hill with its hellish chisel-
Oh wounds are healed, who can dress the scars?

©Eterigho Oghenekome Humphrey. 

Picture courtesy pixabay.com
First published by "Scars Publication And Design".