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The Farmer of Colors
The Farmer of Colors
Harvesting a field
of chromatic linguistics
is akin to a dance:
first you must hold
your canvas like a partner
and place layers of
harmonious tinctures over
the picture plane.
I’m a refugee
I’m a refugee
An exile, a stranger
In a gold residence.
Home died decades away.
Those who opened their door
To welcome my wandering legs
Point to me their tables
decked with wine and sweetbread.
BOY or GIRL?
If you were given the choice as a parent to produce just one child in your life, would you rather have a boy or a girl?
Traditionally we would all say a boy.
Now take a look at the pillar that these Amazon women are building.
It is made of steel inside, and it is covered by clay.
Do you know this song?
Do you know this song?
Ẹ fà á nírungbọn tu!
Ẹ fà á nírungbọn tu ò
Àgbàlagbà tí ò lówó lọ́wọ́
Tó ń dá irungbọ̀n sí
Ẹ fà á nírungbọn tu.
DAILY DEVOTION: ÌWÚRE
Gbogbo igi kọ́ lejò ń gùn (Not all trees can be scaled by the snake)
Gbogbo omi kọ́ lẹdun ń mu (The colobus monkey doesn’t drink all types of water)
Àyàfi wèrè, àyàfi dìgbòlugi (Only the insane, only the raving lunatic)
Three weeks of painting.
Three weeks of painting. It started as a butterfly.
