When our quills cry,
Their voices are heard
Far and far away from home.
Like the wind,
They travel to places
Our feet may never reach
Without wings.

Tear drops from our quills
Fly with heavy wings.
Wings heavy with messages.
Messages of good and bad News.
News eulogizing and criticizing
The very centre of our existence.

When our quills cry
During the odd hours of the night,
Sleep marries in the homes
Of our eyes.
When silence walks without feet
Sending the ears on journeys without fare
For they really travel far,
We keep still like we are glued
To our quills and parchments.


Edem Fodeka


When our quills cry,
They send shivers down veins.
They flow like rivers without end.
Palpitation eats in the home of consciences
Just when our quills cry.

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