He’s just a sad man under a purple blanket in the end.
Apart from the marmalade and prayers,
all that’s left is the righteous, smashed window.
I should know—
I turned the empty page to the one dressed in ink,
so they can witness my squirming wander.
It’s all ponder and soda bread,
and sympathy for the blackbird
that lost its nest
when we cut down the tree.
Fled.
Jesse Ojuka 
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