Buses of sainthood
Toot their horns
Waiting impatiently for the visiting Holy Month
Horrid hearts which were shelved
Stretch and open eyes
Waiting for the right time to descend and blend
By tomorrow, a frown will cause a dirty slap
All goats must heed their owners’ calls
Or risk ending up in strange pots
Hot mouths must mark their surroundings
Or risk setting fires In many a humble huts
The Holy Month is a pious soldier
Who subdues all Like an all seeing law
So its departure breaks the cages
Of chained burdened sins which hid
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2015
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