I’m writing this letter
With showers of blessed pains
Trekking from my eyes
Down to my compressed cheeks.

I’m writing this letter
From the oblivious part of my heart
To you- to be softened
And to them- to be hardened.

Tell them
That the fire is no more on the mountain,
It is now on the waters
Boiling them thoroughly,
Burning them passionately,
Without flames evaporating
Into the gentle clouds.

Tell them
That the sun has risen from sleep,
But the day is not bright.
It’s having a confused mixture
Of morning and night;
A definition of mor-night.

Tell them
That I can no longer
Gather firewood’s from trees.
The trees are not tired, yet sweating
And turning themselves
Into water-woods.

Tell them
That it has rained;
But it rained just stones,
Not the water I use to get.

Tell them
That my eyes are swollen;
Not from the beatings I got,
But from the hatred I survived.

Tell them
That in my eyes- I have tears
But in my hearts- no cries;
In my bones- I have fears
But in my skin- no sweat.

Tell them
That I used to join them
In singing the love anthem;
But my nose perceived
Rhythms of hatred
From the lines of their souls.

Tell them
That this letter was written
From me to you
And from me to them.
As showers of blessed pains
Were trekking from my eyes
Down to my compressed cheeks.

Written by Jacob Temidayo



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