Poet in the Time of Buhari

The country is burning, both in dream and in wakefulness- to which part of the flames must he, the firefighter, turn his hose? I The poet stares long at the blank screen and the blinking cursor. His mind wanders. A century before now, poets stared at blank paper. Millenia before, blank cave walls. And before then, the primal poet stared at the darkness in the face of the deep, the world without form. Even though paper and screens are now a bright white, the spa

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