The TONGUE – © 1975 First Published In Okike Journals 17, 1981
Resting in Her sheath she lies
Motionless on her soft bed
Her body as moist as the crawling snail’s
Embracing the palate’s warmth.
From time to time she stirs
Handing palate’s duty over to him.
She sleeps- the two-edged sword
Who, waking in a happy mood
Bids peace on earth to reign
And good will towards men on earth
But when stirred to anger becomes
That invincible sword of catastrophe
Whose clamour from torrential rage
Is like the rattle of a machine-gun
That rains forth venomous bullets-
Bullets whose wounds no physician can cure
And so the psyche thus widowed
Will in the ocean of Melancholy drift
Lithe never in sight for an anchor
Rather will forever dwell with the ulcerous wound.