Martin Ijir is a social entrepreneur, teacher, mystic, poet, social & right activist, editor, humanist and thinker. His voice had appeared in ANA Review, LangLit Journal, Rock Pebbles Journal, Azahar Spanish Magazine, Arcs Prose-Poetry Magazine,  Amritanjali Quarterly Journal among others. He is the author of the Vulture and Eeries of Silence. Winner of 2020 Arcs Prose Poetry Award, a finalist of Sentieri diversi Associazione Culturale Poetry Prize, winning  premio internationazione d’honore in 2018 and 2019, Italy. He loves walking, meditative prayer and music apart from writing. He lives in Karu, Nasarawa State, Nigeria.

Stolen the dew from my soul 

Sweet, the sheets of the cloud 
As we lay on the bed of hope 
The streams of love spread across our heart
And a fair goddess from the seventh mountain 
Stole the dew from my soul

Above her lay six limpid tears
The one that takes a flesh into the dark 
And the golden flash that break 
The silent night when light shines 
Calmly, she stole the dew from my soul 

Her finesse garments tore my linen flesh
Inside this covering sheet without borderless seam 
And the ivory that watches over us merch 
For the muses in our breathes gleam 
Yet, she stole the dew from my soul 

 All skins are dew

If we famished our collective hope like a loose grass touched by a sun or like a loose rain touched by a rain then we will understand the mystery in  this silent cover and the parting sheets glued on the curtain rays of dying and eternal breathe. Those who famished their flesh into a better lifeless rest would attest to this solemnity of admissible train. Sometimes, the ode in the fare is joyfully fear and the paucity of the pauper that takes the evasive journey walks without knowing the destination. If one sum ups, the spirit in the dots of a sleeping soul. One will see clearly, the lost in a verse, and the broken reportage of a substantive poet. Those gallows of mutedness, stared as the wind of fever in early hours of a day. Wait a minute, the person inside me protest. If there is a riot in the lines of a poet and the tentacles of a serpent prevailed in its subtlety, then man falls as rigged election, as they taste the juice in the table of apple’s orgy  akin to served wine of garden of Eden, then the vanishing you discuss about exemplified this word as parting from my flesh. In return, I gave a fetid smile akin to a sun touching a dew. All skins are dew, when their sun touches them. When I hide in the end of my sleep and the waves in my flesh became remorseful, I always understood  the very essence of me walking and holding the veneer of death inside me. I don’t know if you understood as well.