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To dream is to wear
a regalia of past times,
to draw a foreign map in your palms.
Mother marches you into a home
where wishes wear you like a skin,
and you name your hands as past and present,
for they break you into stanzas of hollow poetry
Father tells you that to make memories
is to dissolve,
to become a fragment of home,
to relish the mud of childhood
Now you name illusion as you answer reality in no real tone,
for to wear your face faceless
is to make dreams ripe.
About the Author: Emmanuel Chukwu, an undergraduate of the University of Calabar, is a Nigerian writer and poet.
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