With a crow

Birth lights the candle of life.

So we watch in awe as

Dawn pulls out the sun 

From the belly of the East

Igniting a day.

For we have learnt, through gloomy nights palleted 

With pain– that the sun is life, gentle at birth

Glowing in her beauty, but we bear in mind that this beauty is not eternal.

For when noon cracks its shell, and the sun contorts into a grimace

Housing a frown that scorns the earth till it toasts-

A nation of clamouring lips will mutter at an hour as such

“Oh! This tender yolk has morphed into a fireball

Look! Noon is a hostile fiend, a killer of joy”

But just as evening saunters near, the sun grows pale

Losing its strength to the days greying scales.

So we watch in awe as

Dusk pulls down the sun

Drowning it into the belly of the west

Conjuring a night.

And with a hush

Death puts out the candle of life.


My pen bleeds out poems of consolation for broken hearts

yet my own heart carries lots of wounds; wounds too deep for salves

I searched my soul for words candied enough to con God into forgiving my sins. But the prophet says:

God is omnipotent, he sees all, and he can’t be fiddled by the sweet-false tongue of man. 

And I took a kettle of water, carried my heart heavy as a corpse willing to accept repentance.

So, while I ritualed my way through an ablution believing my sins were washed away I washed my

Face-    hands-     legs-      then I said my prayers, face turned away, my back to the kiblah.

A hand touched my shoulder, surely it was mother’s

Where is your Qibla? She questioned, but I was speechless. To which god are you praying? She asked again 

But I remained mute. Where is your Qibla? She scolded, drawing the attention of Father. 

Only then had I looked into her eyes and said: My Qibla is in my thoughts. And my Kaaba is my heart. 

Blasphemy!  Father shouted   eyes, the flames of hell 

And watched as mother almost forgot the sound of her voice.

Do You carry God in your heart? Father asked with a nudge of sarcasm 

Young man, the spirit of God only dwells in a holy place.

I stared at my Father who thinks being a father is impregnating a fertile womb

And Mother who believes mothering = birthing and squeezing milk 

From deflated breasts into whooshing mouths of crying babies. 

I took a deep breath but couldn’t put out the fiery thoughts that burnt like:

If only they can come into my world where my pains are far more responsible,

Where uncertainty falls like snowflakes   where every word is a calligraphy of sorrow. 

A world of suffocated tales in which metaphors are hanged to death!

To them, I voiced out: My Qibla is in my thoughts. 

And my Kaaba is my heart. But what I meant to say was: I pray not to God but to

My broken heart to heal of its wounds and ease my soul.

Daniel Aôndona (The new born poet) was born in the year 2005, he hails from Konshisha Local government area of Benue state and writes from Abuja, Nigeria. Daniel is an aspiring poet, a short story writer, and a book reviewer. He is a member of the Hilltop creative arts foundation, a founding member of Keeptheinkflowing and a mentor at the league of new born poets. 

Daniel Aôndona can be reached via: Facebook- Daniel Aôndona / Instagram- daniel_aondona/ Email-