GONE

One speaks in a town full of void,
Make way for the king. Make way!
What king, though?
A king of the mountains?
Or the soil? The oceans or the waves?
Spare me the thoughts of such ruler,
Whose majestic grievances,
Would cause the earth to quake,
The mountains to quiver,
Seas uproar with thunder and lightening.
Then, a downpour of wet magnitude on the children of men.
But where are the people whose dominance should subdue this persistent hurricane?
Gone! I say. Gone!
Into the mountains of the east,
For fear of their demise.
Who then should make way for the king?
The mountains or the hills?
The oceans or the waves?
The trees?
Oh! Perhaps, the pathways amongst the iroko trees,
Would originally obey this command.
But the people would still hide high up in the mountains of the east,
For fear of their demise.