It’s tiring to do this so many evenings, so late
When even clear, beautiful Spring water must, too, evaporate.
I can’t be up all night... Not if I want to be serious, all right
But to the beat of my own drummer... I find the depth to write
I may march against the enemy to lead the April battle-fight
Me, serious like a helmet-clad beetle, armed with a sting-bite
Me, solemn to buckle down and have a hand in war, if I might.
Or, I opt from battle, for into slumber I plunder
Prematurely into sleep, falling
Cutting the narration short, like scissor to string,
leaving even Ben Franklin wondering.
What a sight from the kite! looking up at the cloud with silver lining
Until enlightenment lighting overshadows the thunder’s loud thinking
Wake Up Good Morning…. This is Africa Calling…
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