Creme De La Creme

A hiss, a prank

We may tip-toe with our minds

And pray we become

Not preys to incompetence

At half-moons;

We may lie beside our logs

And proclaim how steeper our fates are

We may observe with restraint



The moon may become gay

But the tiny-grey hairs

Entwined on the scalp

Of our old men

Shall make us astute

And the femininity

Of the caresses of our women

May satisfy our comforts

The other section of the trodded-roads

May lie negligence, inferiority

But still there shall be

A rubric to plausible



A hiss, a prank

The rains may cry out loud

And our propagated hopes

Amid which the rotten seedlings

May be left to posterity

Yet, we may hope our rows

Remain the first within equals




We may gather our flocks to graze

With their offsprings so attached

To our bleeding hearts

But we may till the deserted land

To bear sufficient harvests

We may sit on raffia,

Interlogged weeds,

And peasants may be

Inscribed to our identities

But we may not wither

Our patience



A hiss, a prank

We may not know

How to get to the stream

But we may know

That water shall find us

We may be condemned,

Spat upon, refuted

But we may lastly know that

We may be strategically placed

To be the Creme de la creme


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