Tastes sweeter than all titles bestowed by strife.
Deathly probes, he deftly side-slipped steeped in defiance. Instead,
He tossed the heavens a knotted-cord of scornful nose. Boldly,
He charged for the Ivory towers round
The land of Seven-hills; With a brilliant touch,
Drink from its academe Watery hole to rounded Germanic tongue. Sooner,
Prophesied to struts among the Goethes of this world.
Now we carefully observe the foreground; but can't find him.
Because his lifetime is yet to shine forth its light;
And his noonday is still as the dark night;
Which leave but deep gashes of grief
In the anxious hearts of his kinsfolk;
Where are you, Ilesanmi? Where are you?
At home reposed?
Or on a social gallivant?
Will you ever come full circle?
Still, we keep our hopes alive.