Dear Irony

I
Dear Irony, “Tell me, my goddess.”
What numbers have you laid sway?
Is it the Wise – who derides Folly?
Or the ridiculed who derides his mocker –
“In all his insight and contemplative devote he is
a maverick proclaiming without any result his knowing
like a parched lost vagabond in Sahara
the thirst for knowledge had led him to drink
from the desert spring of Gloom – souring his heart
distress thumps all the more noisily on his entryways t
than Happiness and Merry;
What tumult – what sorrow – what sad fate.

II
Dear Irony, confess to me – my enchantress.
What numbers are subjugated by your charms?
Is it the sovereign of that far-off country?
Whom subjects under his authority mock –
“I control their affairs – am lord to them all.”
Or the swayed and bossed in their humbleness?
Who in answer mock their derided charlatan
“Rains of ill fate has befallen him,
he seeks power yet free freedom over self,
bonds master, yet enslaver of his spirit,
all he ever needed has turned him
into a walking tragedy – a phantom of Fortune,
he will die well known to all yet obscure to himself.
What tumult – what sorrow – what sad fate.

III
The virtuoso of Caprice! Smile, on me, admit to my ear,
allow not judiciousness to deny me! What numbers –
is it that egocentric monster called Man?
The most alive of creation, who ridicules mocks other creatures –
“Am of a greater degree of purity –
gifted from birth with domain and knowledge.”
Or is it the ridiculed who derides his impostor?
“He was once, blessed yet most unholy –
A bride to war, an apostle of destruction,
An angle of self-inflicted sorrow
A heartbreak to God – his maker.”
What tumult – what sorrow – what sad fate.

IV
To you, my flighty dame, I bow!
My lady of illusion and honor most genuine
give Man a full measure of your meaning
in conceding his affairs to you
so that his fate will not take leave to sit
with Vulnerability, nor bewail because
blossoming are the secret richness
of Nature – its concealed wisdom and laws
that controls our stars and destiny.
Kind companion – my goddess – my conjurer
Loosen o your hold and mock us not!

© Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords.org | 2021

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