The brink unearthed you to dateline news out of the brink.
Soon, you told the brink that insists its abysses must be called home,
to unearth all the brink sees, to say all the brink knows,
to tell the brink’s own beginnings, to sing its own end.
Soon, words dried from hearts beaten next to the brink
that breaks and breaks heads to break news…
Old brink. New canto. The boss is song.
Each clan out of the brink must author its own canto or sleep.
You utter the unutterable to sing the brink’s end.
You see the brink now with new eyes.
You utter more than the brink’s truth.
Soon, beaten hearts and bones blaze again to sing all they know,
till the brink is no longer Muse.
New brink. New canto. The boss is song.
You are by choice a sun-seeker. Light, like you,
never said it loathes to dwell perpetually here.
You are by calling a brink-breaker.
Headlines through your dispatches and Generals fled.
You are by your journey called to song.
You dumped Law that docks all, for the Lore of song for all.
Old law. New lore. The boss is song.
You are today by birth diamond’s peer.
Bask in your veins today that says today is re-birth day.
Sixty seasons in mini albums out of the rearview mirror:
Night still crisscrosses the path. The brink nurtures night.
Sun emits its diamond heart. Nameless fates here bask in it,
and you know here is the diamond heart of light.
Old sun. New heart. The boss is song.
Chiedu Ezeanah, poet and journalist, is contributing editor, PREMIUM TIMES Arts & Culture.
