I do not know what I'll find
If I pull off your hijab.
Perhaps a cobra lurks to bite
Whose venom will kill wit.

I've bared my heart into sonnets.
Sadly you will never read them- you aren't lettered.
You're rather numbered counting naira notes
By the fireside where you fry awara.
...but I know you'll listen to my eyes
that tells the number of stars 
exploding within by this stuttering tongue and cold sweat

thawing under the radiance of your dimples.

In the dark corner where the cry of alimajiri crowns the night.
I will be waiting to elope with you arm in arm via our eyes with wings
where we can stand above the earth with every altitude heavenward
veiling the steeple and the minaret.

-Martins Deep