This is a poem by Meuna who is 7 years old on his mother’s birthday: enjoy.
So my leg lunged forward, and you slowly matched that step,
Smiling, clinging onto my hand trembling no more.
I wasn’t going to let you go.
I would succeed.
I had done this before
Dear Readers, I had to share this little jewel from my 8-year-old son; something special he wrote for his precious mum. It’s so unexpected that
They say glass is made from sand, and I’ve witnessed In documentaries how men take the so-rough-and-ugly To make these marvelous pieces, that hold the
When you cross the Pearly Gates, will you sing for mum? I recall those tender dew watered Yaoundé morns When the cassette spun your voice
Till pieces are ready to be put in the cauldron
Of oil of olive and salt and more
And make my meal, no a meal for me and the squadron
Of 2 bigger boys and 1 girlish bore,