Harmony Iii Poem by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

And the pulse of the tendril
grew with every rhyme of a
listening life:

‘Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he...'

Again, the West
gave evidence;
she testified.

‘Mary Mary Quite Contrary
How does your garden grow...? '

One famous sage swore he could
define the word Tintinnabulation.
And this rang on on the two-portalled chamber.

‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star
How I wonder what you are...'

Gently,
the stars came, blinked and faded.
With them were dusts for lower pollutions.
Even the Great Walls of China were built
in light years —distant properties of the stars.

But what precedes these
or comes after them?

How does one retrieve the booming
voice of a tolling bell hung on
the crest of a sloping village?

No harmony is repeated when given off.

Echoes of a prodigious note do not return.

Sadly, memories are distant images only.

These are footnotes to a living age.