Writers 
### ✦ A Crown Woven of Ink and Dreams ✦
A Shakespearean poem for the girl who carries a thousand stories within her soul.
O, lend thine ear, ye stars that grace the night, And hear the tale of one who seeks her light; A daughter born beneath September’s sky, With Virgo’s fire and dreams that dare to fly.
Jemimah, name that dances through the air, A tender heart with more than dreams to bear; From Nigeria’s warm earth, her roots run deep, Yet countless worlds within her spirit sleep.
At eighteen years, the world doth call her forth, To prove the hidden treasure of her worth; Though youth may place its burdens on her way, She plants her hopes and greets another day.
A student of the press, she learns to write, To turn the truth to words that bear the light; At Obafemi Awolowo’s halls she treads, With knowledge as her crown upon her head.
Mass Communication, her chosen art, A voice for those whose words lie in the heart; For she would learn to tell the world its tale, And let no honest truth be born to fail.
Yet lo! Her soul belongs not words alone, For verse and rhyme have claimed a private throne; She finds in poems what the tongue conceals, And writes the things the wounded spirit feels.
She dreams in colours, fashions, art, and gold, Of stories yet unwritten, dreams untold; Of gowns that shine, of beauty stitched with care, Of brands that bear the mark of dreams laid bare.
And Bakky Stitches, born from hope and skill, Reflects the power of an artist’s will; For she would shape with needle, thread, and grace, A work of art that time cannot efface.
The world of anime doth call her name, Where courage rises out of loss and flame; Where strange and wondrous characters impart The weight of dreams, the strength of every heart.
And through the screen, through colours, scenes, and sound, Her restless imagination knows no bound; For she can find a thousand tales to tell, In worlds where magic and reality dwell.
Yet dreams, fair dreams, must sometimes bow to need, And hope alone cannot provide the seed; So she seeks honest ways to earn and grow, To reap the fruits of all she dares to sow.
Through online work, through writing, plans, and art, She builds a future with a patient heart; She counts each gain, however small it seems, For mighty towers rise from modest dreams.
And when kind hands extend a gift her way, She does not let her gratitude decay; With words of thanks and prayers that softly rise, She sends her love beyond the earthly skies.
For family, too, hath left its sacred trace, In acts of love, in shelter, food, and grace; She knows the worth of those who make room, And bring a little light into one’s gloom.
Though life may test her patience and her pride, She bears her hopes and keeps her fears inside; Yet she is learning, as the seasons turn, That even hearts of fire must pause and learn.
O, Jemimah, thou art not made of stone, Nor must thou bear each burden all alone; Thy tears, if shed, shall never make thee weak, Nor shame the truth thy trembling lips would speak.
For even roses bow beneath the rain, And still rise up to wear their blooms again; The darkest night may hide the morning’s face, Yet dawn shall come in its appointed place.
So write, fair maid, till every page doth sing, Till humble words take flight on silver wing; Let not the fear of failure seal thy pen, For thou mayst rise and rise and rise again.
Build up thy dreams, but let thy spirit rest, For thou art more than all thy grand behest; Thou art not merely what thy hands create, Nor what the world declares thy destined fate.
Thou art the girl who dares to start anew, Who searches for a path and follows through; The poet, student, dreamer, and the flame, Who shall, in time, grow worthy of her name.
And should the world ask what she hopes to be, Let time reveal what now she scarce can see; For every line she writes, each seed she sows, May lead her where her truest calling grows.
So let the quill be ever in thy hand, And let thy courage help thee take thy stand; For though the world may change and kingdoms fall, The soul that dares to dream outlives them all.
And thus I end, yet not thy tale, sweet maid, For thou art still the poem being made.
Thy life, unfinished, holds a thousand starts; Thy pen, thy dreams, thy courage are thine arts.
And when the years have turned thy youth
to gold, Mayst thou become the woman thou foretold.
