The Singers By Michael Echeruo

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The Mothers: 

For we, too, have fought 

the dry north-wind; 

Survived the mad fires 

of late December.

The Daughters: 

We unfolded April's finery 

for birds to pick the seed; 

And yet December came on us, 

the harvest on our laps.

Come, celebrate this mid-of-year, 

before the tubers roll: 

The days are warm like handsome men. 

O might it hail all night!

The Mothers:

The breeze came from the sea 

a cold caressing wind; 

Death came with the breeze 

caressing all our agony.

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