Thou Art My Love

Surely, thou art my love
I vow to treat thee right
I vow to love thee right

Thou shalt know no hunger
For thou shall eat mortar pounded yam
By mine hand

And my waters
As pure as Ragolis
Shall quench thy thirst

Come let's dance to "Eminado"
For that is what thou art to me...
And I will love thee for evermore.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Of Dreams

I know that I am dreamy and that the kind of love I hope for may be unrealistic but I'd rather believe in my dream than to sigh and make do with what is available. My dream will keep me going, will make me wake up every morning exhilarated, will make me ask myself eagerly, "Is today the day that I will find him? Will it happen for me this day?" For what is life without questions? What is love without completeness, oneness? So, I would rather keep the hope burning bright in my heart than to wince inwardly when I say "I love you" and I know it is untrue. I would rather tingle from love scenes yet made than to bite my lips to keep from screaming another's name as my 'make do'  makes love to me. I would rather grin in glee to anticipated conversation than to listen to him half-heartedly, the ears of my heart straining to hear another's voice. I would rather be alone, hoping for the kind of love that I desire to find me, than to live unha...
Read more

Choose Right

Someone once asked me, “How can you still be so tender, after walking through so much hurt?” And I answered, “It is precisely because of the hurt I have walked through.” Pain is a teacher dressed in shadows. To some, it becomes a poison that corrodes their spirit, leaving them cruel, bitter, and unkind. But to others - to those who listen closely - pain becomes the chisel that carves out compassion, the fire that tempers the heart into gentleness. When you have sat alone in the darkness, aching for a voice that whispers, “You are not alone,” you learn to be that voice. When you have longed for a hand to lift you from the ashes, you decide that your hands will never push another soul into the flames. That is the sacred alchemy of suffering: it can turn anguish into tenderness, wounds into wisdom, sorrow into love. But healing, ah, healing is not easy. It asks you to unclench your fists when rage begs for vengeance. It asks you to soften when hatred promises power. It asks you to re...
Read more

Dance Of The Flames

Mercy eyes were filled with dismay at the state of the sitting room she had tidied up just a few minutes ago. It was now in disarray, everything out of position. The centre table was upturned, the cushions were on the floor and to worsen everything, the contents of a cereal box was lavishly scattered on the centre rug. And the culprits, two little boys, George and Mickey were standing in the middle of the room, grinning sheepishly. They were covered in cereal. "Which kain tin be dis na? Wetin I do una wey make una hate me like dis? Why una dey make my work hard like dis na ehn?" She lamented, her arms flailing wildly. Mickey ran to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He was four years old and adorable. "I love you Aunty Mercy" he grinned adoringly at her. "Me too, Aunty Mercy." George called from where he pulled at the strands on the centre rug. Mercy looked at them and sighed in exasperation. She loved them too but they drove her craz...
Read more