
đ:
It’s funny how the world could not
Hold anything perfect
And we keep forcing the future
Into our handsâ
Stitching our arms with loom bands
Made of ancient painâ
Their colours not the same
That tells a lot about our sins.
It’s funny how the world becomes
 The land of the dead
Yet the breeze keeps telling us
How alive we are,
Even though our veins run waterâ
Hearts beating backwards
And minds crisscrossed
In a lame-end unorthodox.
đđ
We outwore our hands on to putting strings
On this small, fragileâhalf-brokenâ, inaudible violin
Called “hope”â
Our feet laid into nothingness
As we walk across the skin
Of the universe.
We sing the songs sung by our ancestors,
Our chaotic voices pieced togetherâ
Whirling and whirling around the corners
Of the sea, we stand ashore.
This world cannot fitâfurlâ
Into a poem.
Weâthe people of wrothâ
Share a piece of breath among ourselves,
For this world cannot
Burn the fury of our lungs.
Fear and dubiety, like a pack of wild dogs,
Hunt us out of our havenâ
Running toward us with receding
Footsteps
Thine eyes filled with emptiness;
Look through mine and see the voidâ
Same as yours and theirs,
For I can see the sound in your mind,
And can hear the stillness
Of your soul.

What brings to me, muse tonight?
This nightâbirthed of a darkling owlâ
Speaks of silence:
Piercing through the unweighted, grey sky.
I could bid you farewell a hundred times of life,
But,
Do not take one of those into your bellyâ
Do not let one reach the tip of your throat.
If you find me ripped out of my bodyâ
Torn out of flesh and bones and grey blood;
Take a piece of me to the museum, where my ancestors were put forth
And bury the rest of me deep down your skin and hair.
đđđ:
Meanwhile a family of fourâof a single
Motherâworks hand-in-hand to plant
The seed of false hope in their skin.
âThe world…â says the smallest child
â…looks like a rotten, unbroken egg
In the nest of a dying birdâ
Its shape’s like a raindrop, and reeks
Of father’s memory.â
They run into hiding places when it gets
Darkâ run down the skin of the earth,
Leaving their footprints of grief pattern
Behind:
A child whose father once told âyou were made
Of tulip’s skinâ âwas left with hot ashes
On her tongueâ
Walks upon her mother’s shadow.
“The world is beautiful and brutal”;
All the wild greenness
across
The soil, sharpen, cut
The roads and paths and ravines
Off their feetâ
“The world is beautiful but misunderstood”;
The third child vocalises his painâ
Although the world
Is not an element of his symphonic poem
Finally,
“The world is twisted in our palms/fingers”
Says the mother:
“So we can sweep our lives off
 The lame-end unorthodox”
About the author

Najeeb Yusuf Ubandiya is a poet from Niger, Nigeriaâwho finds peace and freedom in writing poetry. He’s written a hundred poems, but “UNORTHODOX” is his first poem to have appeared in a publication.
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This is really good. It deserved the publication