STIGMA

STIGMA

Ears stand upright

And will not bow

Stalks conceived of

Ears and will not

Deliver

All baked and

Sway in Languor

In the empty wind

I hear the leaves

Rustle as they

Are wont to

But there is no

Hissing sound of

Seed rubbing against seed

As there should be

In the matter of

Seasons there is

Nothing the farmer ignores

But when seasons are

Not seasons and crops

Will not yield, he

Loses his balance and

Blandly waves a veinous

Arm from the side of

The road to The

CITIZEN driving past

In opulence.

Hassum Ceesay

(Ndaanan, Vol. 5, Issue 1&2, March/September, 1976, p. 27)