The little Sun and the little Moon stand on my land
Competing for me to wear their bands, oh poor Sky!
But they look like dark small tools, so I cry.
How will I explain this to the little Stars when they land?
That these young lads were the only options in choosing in the dry?
Certainly not. I will rather fry
Than make the Moon take over day and the Sun take over night, interfering with a hi,
When the clouds want to lie.
I will, for neither, wear no band
This Sky will rather be vacant and mine, rather than go sorrowfully awry.
At least, these hands of mine will be free from a tie
As I lie.
Because no matter their pampering, their end may stink like a pig’s sty.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©2014.