Read Time:39 Second
as old hair turn grey
The slender trees wither
and the tiny grasses too
The blades will not cut
blunted at the edges
by the taste of harmattan
The biege crust of sun-baked mud
with cracks, as the lips of a desert derelict
As if already begging for water
when the cold is yet to come
When only the aperitif is served
the full course still on course
The sun of the Sahara
smiling upon arid cities
I, await, the cold taste of harmattan
The smoky smell of Christmas
The cries of fattened broilers
I await Christmas in Harmattan
Written by: Adesina Collins Dhonphonie
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
