By
Wole Soyinka
Cold wreath vine, darkly
Coiled about the night; echoes deep within
Bled veins of autumn
A votive vase, her throat
Poured many souls as ome:; how dark
The wine became the night
Fleshed from out disjointed, out from
The sidewalk hurt of sirens, a darkling
Pool of wine shivers
In light shrapnel, and do you ask
How is the wine tonight? Dark, lady
Dark in token of the deeper wounds
Fall again of promises
Of the deep and silent wounds
Of cruel phases of the darksome wine
Song, O voice, is lonely envoy
Night w runnel for the wine’s indifferent floe.
Wole Soyinka
Wole Soyinka was born on 1934. He’s known mainly as African’s most prolific and playwright.
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