Seasons come, seasons go
But your virtues remain steady
Untouched by passing fancies
Below is a slightly amended version
Of my ode to the Teacher
Two remarkable decades ago. . .
Old teachers never die;
They simply wax wiser with passing moons. . .
Old teachers never die
The wine of age is winking in your glass,
Sip it in style;
Sip it with relish.
For when you sat in the saddle*,
You never rode roughshod upon our earth.
Your voice called up our depths
Your silence gingered us into song
Our growing scrawls mellowed into hieroglyphs
On the tender papyrus that was your palm:
(Allophones we all, of your happy phoneme)
Liberal star, compassionate moon.
Scion of a stock in league with Light
Let your ebony laughter unknot our brows
As we journey all season from sky to sky
Powered by the wind of your word.
Morning by morning**
We count your blessings
And regard our days
Old teachers never die;
They simply wax wiser with passing moons. .
** In the Saddle and Morning by Morning are two exceptionally crafted and evocative
autobiographies of Ayo Banjo.
Niyi Osundare