I'm a musician.
The melody of my music
is the percussion of my heart.
I array the heavens with tunes
and fairies and angels presenced their wings.
I strike the string on Sun's sight
that light may rise early in the morning.
II
One night,
when I played with a calm heart,
notes soothing as a meek river,
a wind in need of ecstasy—
or without the want of whirl—
cherished eagerly my notes,
too eagerly my sheets of music
written in my dear heart.
I tried to pick the pieces preyed—
but I play amidst dry leaves,
whose colours are as brown as my sheets
and whose veins are broken notes
on three ragged staves.
Those did I successfully pick
for it was yet an eve.
Now that I play carefully,
the tunes prick my heart.
But the tunes are not mine,
and the lyrics are ill.
Each strike on my harp
painfully
en
dure:
for I play;
but, the music is not
mine.```
_Adelere Adesina_