There shall be no more songs
of soft magnolias that blow
like aromatic winds through southern vales,
no more praises of daffodils chattering
the winds fluttering tune-
and no eulogies of red, red roses
that fall like blood from heavy vines.
Black Orpheus calls, his lyre piercing
the dark solitude of hadean world:
Come O Ebony-hued Eurydice, he beckons,
he shan’t look back-the lesson has
been well learned.
There have been despondent days
and long nights of insomnia-
but your voice, sweet Eurydice,
was like some Nigerian wind that
blew softly through the water wil
