On the tails of the whispering breeze in Sahara
Dwells a bone beating seizure out of his body in silence,
He takes time to his palm and narrates the confluence
Of many cities to sound, voices and to the air.
This is the poetry of Ayankunrin
The boy who sits on wheels of running lands like the burning bird
Trying to find there brides that speak the color of the sand
Whether in Exodus or Psalms of Terpsichore.
When your voice, a formation of defense
Spells the unknown in the certain like the burning breeze in harmattan
And your fire of many things
Fighting courage in the eyes of whored influences. Remember
How you are a drum of yourself speaking the tales of eternity
Remember who you were before you become nothing drawn in flame…
