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Lucy Peprah Tawiah

A shoulder worth crying on
Making the dreams of the unknown known.
How come you’re not a saint?
From the corridors of my village
You bade me welcome

A mother worth running to.
Giving rise to all
Sensing the pain of many;
As you calm it with thine words.
Putting to sleep the troubled.

Low you bow, for humility.
Unifying the souls of writers
Creating the home we always wished for.
Yielding the fruits we all craved.
Ye have been a temple of hope

The beacon of one ness
Providing the arms of comfort
Embracing us with our dirty feet’s
Passion for the word we provide
Ye are the living Muse.

This poem is dedicated to Lucy Peprah Tawiah. A mother to many. This is my way of saying thank you. Thank You mother.

All copyrights reserved Haymaker Β©2015

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Mchaymaker.com is the unique home of tales of African arts that seeks to expand the world’s view on it’s extraordinary nature.

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