Prisoner by Wole soyinka

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Grey, to the low grass cropping

Slung, wet-lichened, wisps from such

Smoke heaviness, elusive of thin blades

Curl inward to the earth, breed

The grey hours,

And days, and years, for do not

The wise grey temples we must build

To febrile years, here begin, not

In tears and ashes, but on the sad mocking

Threads, compulsive of the hour?

In the desert wildness, when, lone cactus,

Cannibal was his love – even amidst the

Crag and gorge, the leap and night-tremors

Even as the potsherd stayed and the sandstorm

Fell – intimations came.

In the whorled centre of the storm, a threnody

But not from this. For that far companion,

Made sudden stranger when the wind slacked

And the centre fell, grief. And the stricken

Potsherd lay, disconsolate – intimations then

But not from these. He knew only

Sudden seizure. And time conquest

Bound him helpless to each grey essence.

Nothing remained if pains and longings

Once, once set the walls. Sadness

Closed him, rootless, lacking cause.