It weeps profoundly,
whispering injustices,
softened by the Perath.
It flourishes like the Tigris,
flowing aimlessly to the east of Ashur,
seeking seeds of sovereignty.
Its simplicity transforms a Nigerian hut,
like the barehand of a mother,
burying battered souls beneath the blue clouds,
blowing dust from the shore.
At its peak,
it eases nauseous mornings,
senses inward gazes,
squeezes braided spaces,
kisses jaded faces.
Its determination knows no bound,
cradling his bosom while he gasps,
quietly in pain.
