My uncurved feet you washed, naked,
bathed my lashes and quenched the
thirst in my tongue . . .

That was when I knew you.

Upon our barren stones and desolate
vegetations, Iyiocha, have you succoured,
brimming gently in ring-shape, pen-mould
and dark enclave among sharp sands under the sun;

your fishes and algae, in holy primitivity,
caressed our morning feet; honourable sacrilege of
yesteryears retraced to keep clean your whiteness.

Iyiocha my beloved, spring of kind ripples,
I salute you.

*A stream in the poet's village