blooming leader

BLOOMING LEADER

(Song for a real son of the land)



1. Bloom well in youth, lest bent age you deflower.

The petals born of youth groom like strong tower

Upon the flow’ry beds of our plum life,

Bloom rich: a silv’ry song bred of rich fife.

A new born day crows bold from panes of east;

A new born life fills hearts with dainty feast.

The flow’ry songs of noon blooms with sweet zest,

Displaying love with all the petals blest.

Like fair moon songs in a most happy night,

Atose’s colours beam with feathers bright.



2. Like a lorn mask that overstayed the shrine,

Like an art work full stale that lost its shine;

Like rare noon-moon that over used its lease,

Like day-caught-owl that cants its hoofs unease;

Like morning Hespers of long forgot age,

Our hungry minds searched for the hid sage

Like builders’ bricks in search of safest coigns,

Like full-blown pics limned bold in choicest coins

Like scalds of old that chant the songs of yore,

We sought Atose to cure our grim sore.



3. We sought the bard to bail us from this bale,

The bard, to cure our lobes from aching pale.

Sore songs were music to our doleful hearts;

The sorry tunes that sold us at poor marts.

Like fops caged in strange garbs we cursed the day

Our clothes betray our beings like common prey.

Sad grumpus of lost age, we breathe red fumes,

Hot enough to crush feathers and rich plumes.

Our fuming plumes were rays from house of Death,

Grim Angel cruel that cuts all things of breath.





4. Before this time we basked at gate of wealth,

Sweet jovial lizards, prinked in glorious health.

Our poems rise, silent music of lorn soul,

That sang the dirge that rang from pole to pole.

Our poems rise, joyous dinnings of great minds,

That rope the hearts of greedy ones in blinds.

Our poems rise, musings of prime fairest wit,

Where wisdom great and sweetest songs do sit.

Our poem rise, mellic songs of fullest hope,

That bind capricious minds with angry rope.



5. Remember now, the days slept with time -

The memories of sweetest youth – your prime.

We recollect the times cocooned in grace,

When sun of dawn did breathe your promised face.

St Patrick’s joyed like lilies of bloomed May:

You learnt, you prayed; you grew by night and day.

Elume Grammar school came with noon-crown,

A jovial school removed from baneful frown.

Sweet butterfly at verge of richest spray,

Unmoved by scorpions that attempt to prey.



6. Mere rustlers in game search; we combed the edge

Of towns, we touched the souls of verdant sedge;

We searched the pricest wisdom tales of old,

Of tales unsoiled, from olden mouths foretold.

But truth like gold slipped by in grim passage.

The silv’ry hair of truth rings this message:

“Slow lazy pride is the Herculean glitch

We must uproot like weed to be true rich”.

The echoes of St Patrick’s, large like life,

Cure our inmost stale hope from bloody strife.



7. You journeyed much like zealous champ to win;

You paved the path of Death where sinners grin.

At last the summit smiles with rays of joy,

Rare rays that all over inmost fears destroy.

The gloamy sun of baleful wasted time,

Gives way to greener life of youthful prime.

I wish you were night-skies with myriad eyes

To scan your works blest full in jumbo size

I wish you were the Saint with watchful ears,

You will save lobes from fear and baneful jeers.



8. The fireflies of the streets are wrought by you -

North, south; east, west – they fill over hungry view.

Our soles trail softly paths untouched by tar

Our feet sing bold, unstained by olden scar.

The scars pf souls were mud of olden clime,

Moist, muddy mounts we groaned to scale and climb.

Eftsoons, the voice of man speak bold with fire;

You climbed, a saint with passions’ full desire.

The fireflies of the street ring bold like gold,

Like gold of day that sings with passions bold.



9. Like glacier floe we swam your precious path,

Plum path of choicest love, unsouzed with wrath.

Base stars of fallen age scarce you with tar,

A million stars will not the moon give scar.

Foul stars sang dins to swink the slinky moon

The fairest moon ignored their dinning croon.

Sweet heavens, sullied with fumes of rich dawn,

Bless us full with joys from verdant lawn.

Today, we move to end our piteous need,

Like birds to roost, we claim our rightful meed.





10. Now we come to the end of our rich songs,

We come to the end of the song of gong.

Like drowning sun that prowed its welkin west,

We drown our fears and seek the path of rest.

To the extreme of our rich tunes come we,

With Popish pride to tame our happy see.

We rued the day we toed the lane of lies.

We curse the days of ooze and hideous flies.

We come to the verge of our soulful tunes,

The jolly path of Godwin’s gladsome runes.



(Olomu A.O.O)