The journey seems fruitless.
But yesterday doers are faultless.
Doers without cross border quenched our tasty.
Our eyes are in civilized arena.
The arena drips with sweet and colourful water.
Our involvement in and out the pitch drops hope.
Our feet and voices are countable.
Classical and magical movements are remarkable.
Why not on our dining table?
Intervals of every two years, we set the table and dine.
No matter how the taste, quantity, yummilicious the meals are,
No sweet purified water to drink after dinner.
For the past years, we are still tasty despite appearing at the dinner.
We are gradually dropping the old cutlery sets
While anticipating water for the dinner from the enthusiastic fresh blood
But why the endless quest for tools in foreign arena for water?
Couldn't our home based borkobokor and wale be the focal point?
May be, the meticulous plan to resuscitate the local diggers are worthless.
We are too tasty.
Poet: Mohammed Rabiu Adam