IT IS HOPE THAT KEEPS THE FLAME OF DREAMS DANCING
by Abdulmueed Balogun
Winner of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest (Poetry Category)
It is hope that keeps the flame of dreams dancing, even when the wind of forlorn
throws at it a thousand blow. I have taken my heart to the silvery river, to remove
all traces of greed, what turns futile a century’s strife, to wash away the sticky dusts
of dissatisfaction, what steels people’s mind to the teachings and admonitions of patience,
what makes them envision the blessings of God as crumbs, as nothing worthy of glorification.
I see them now, smiling as they wine and dine, as they shroud their nakedness with stolen golds,
though survival is the first rule of nature, and when home fails to be a heaven, it’s only natural
but not justifiable to breathe by all means. Mother urges, with the clarity of a calm river, son,
don’t hurry the procession of life, take every pace at your pace, that’s divine; don’t be beguiled
by the fleeting pleasure of the world flashing to your eyes, into hacking the tree of hope in your
mind in the name of survival. Father exhorts, with the voice of a resolute thunder rattling in the
heart of the sky, when clouds wear darkness as cloak before the rise of dusk, beloved, the world
is brief like a second, spend yours as a harbinger of smile to pallid cheeks, and to your
neighbors— a bamly river be, soothe their pains, if you can, when they grief and if you can’t,
mope their tears with words of compassion. Dear God, I have come to you as a country ravaged
by war, as a bird with broken wings, the road of life is coated in riddles and thorns, and only
those under the parasol of your grace can tread unscathed. Gaze upon me— a poet,
a pilgrim and dust, with your merciful eyes, I do not want to brew my bliss like birds my
age who have murdered their conscience with knives of greed, from the core of what you
ordained profane, I do not crave to oil my harmattan-bitten lips like my peers with my neighbors’
oil, while they go to bed with growling stomachs, with bleeding hearts. God, I erect the pillars
of my dreams in your hands, insure my affairs in your heavenly vault, let your name be praised.
It’s a great poem!