D1 vs D3 (Emmanuel vs Saheed)

My heart weep looking at your picture

in my battered hands.

The sweet memories of song that glitters

every barrier.

Death have called you but your tune

sings everyday.

I will sing and rejoice at the the sound of your voice ringing by the hours of the riding night.

I seek courage in your glamour.

Strength of Grace in your sides.

Many will muttered as the sound of your bed rattle in the late hours of the night.

You are not dead!

Let the Nightingale plays the lullaby's that 

makes the eyes of mother dry.

Sail farewell in one big sausa.

I come from a long line of a story,

Where girls are named after hurricanes. 

In this poem, a girl is mixing colors in her palette,

Each paint for every man that has wrecked

The ship between her thighs. Say, in this country 

Girls are tender flowers nipped by the strong

Hands of heavy storms. Every daybreak opens

With a news. & in the news, another girl’s stomach

Is a field for untamed semen, a tabernacle 

For dead dreams, and a caravan for black flames.

On Sundays like this one, I asked my sister to

Become a sea anemone: being a lady and clean

At the same time. Today, she gathered her tears

In a riddled bucket and told me the story of how 

She has become a jar emptied of its nutrients; 

A victim of rape. I showed her the longlist 

Of the pictures of emptied girls like her, 

And, in turn, we allowed the skin of the night

Cover the bruises of our sadness.