Almira Antyard

Being true to yourself might not fit the trend. Evolutionary cycles makes you a legend in a time that may not be yours.

She was tall, like old Iroko tree, a little too tall

With dark and rough parches on her skin

Oh dear, that old lines in between her skin

Were the marks of hot heartless beatings of black sun

Her fingers so tiny, her nails short buns

For she lived in a hot ant village so small

These ants work and pick, and yet she watched

Palm kernels and sticks, the best they could afford

In one line and seamless glory, she noticed

While her father hunts, they plundered

So, she wrote it all down in a loving poetry

These memories of sunny days she cherished

Just think of the pains her fingers bore

As she scribbled her poem with love and care

The ants clustered for her story galore

Hissed, puffed, and returned to their sugar spree

For their language in her poems were sugar free

Just think of the pains her heart now bore

Thousand years later, when ant village became a city

Thirsty souls sought answers for long lost beauty

By an old grassy tomb a little poet found

Most wonderful hunting songs of Fathers untold

Beautifully crafted on stone with dirt and black blood

With a girl's name, oh such a lovely name- "Almira Antyard"

Reviews

[Arundass TP]

Beautiful and very imaginative poem. Good work

[Mirror]

Thank you sir!!! I appreciate it.