The swell of womb and breast is half human circle; On the crest of the grave's rise reclines the other; The grave-like the yam - mound is earth's pregnancy; Life like a dance swings in circles. ...Isidore Diala In vain these needles cast its web of slow fading ambience - lights out, A noose luring consciousness to the calm dirge of silence. My eyes recite the chant of global aphasia; perhaps in temporal permanence, Forceps negotiate with the diplomatic lump on the 45th avenue of swelling; numbness never came, never tried to, never wanted to. I need not relate how noxious to me - a cuisine- to digest For so gory a tale it’d be from the adventurous lips of a bard, hoisting this tale from the oasis of memories.