THE CULTURE OF CUTE CITIES
THE BEAT
by Gbadegesin Akeem Ayodele
its sounds never reach the listeners.
As an hunter blow the whistle of the signals,
the lost dogs never heed to call.
I sing in the palace of seminated city,
who will dance to my solo music?
I become a barking dog in the wilderness
it echoes never reached the city.
The songs of an hidden room which is
never heard in the world wings.
The marks most be making to fulfill
the missions of the moment memoires.
Per chance, the calabash
Carvers may carve words to the stores.
The drummers may dream in the lyrics to
be in the universal studios of the singers.
The plyers may fly in a room of mind to travel
all over the world again and again in a station.
May be the universe known or never I most debut
my words and works to the whole world.
Abroad lands are never seen my tribe mold
walls but through the imagining words and pictures.
Bouquet of flowers are never my traditions but
a package of local gouge wines and kolanuts in a calabash.
To give wishes of the days and to give life and prosperity.
Splits the kolanut to speak, to live and to vomit deaths and diseases.
My drumbeats say," an aborigin will never let its culture died".
The home I live will never bushy.
Footing in footing out will never let it be.
I am the heads and the foots of my forefathers
l will dancestep to the rhythms of my traditions,
even in a borrowed voices.
Their ways are for them, my ways are mine.
Their roots are their rooms,
our culture is for us and our progenies.
We drumsay again and again,
they are never heard.
We speak on again and again,
they are never aggreed.
We lay down the drums to say with mouths,
it lands at the back their ears.
Our ways are our traditions,
we handled our cultures in the cute cities.
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