PHASE I

Leaning on north
In-brace scaling truck
Of a whiten tree
…….. Rattling
A thinly narrow light is strayed from the upmost
It leaves blows to and fro
As the wind whirl wild
Swift of fowls, and clique, I hear the sound of it passing

Sped on wide land
Litters with scattered ridges, all-over
Full of drought
‘Twas the harmattan at April
Swished dryly, ‘all greens ‘ve turn thatch

A hand-length to west, are houseslet
Tatted with mud, a fewer is cemented
And groping across to north
Is a creak-palm tree, toppled by the cottoned winter howls

A river runs fro,
But, at Harmattan is patched
People don't come here in the rainy, for many were gone

Phase II

Sitting on the wing of this plaintively field
The south-houses, disappears
Sag to ant-hill
For it lap, bear much of trees

So-so, had the sunshine hasten to place it rose
For so, quicken the earth counterpane, darkness set on our lamps
The early evening noise;
The day rollup it toil to close. An old lady is going with woods
Goat bleats, a woman calling her child
And so on…… it goes. To the chirp of birds
Jumping from tree to tree