INEC- TOMORROW These sands may not be here though their whispers be of our passage- mirrors of our high heads or shadows of us, tearfully fading like haze when our chatter coil into memoirs and sepia chromes coats our pictures. Today yet grows into yesterday and our cheeks may no longer be dimpled. These sands may be here when tendrils twist into ropes when we converse in sigh and nods; our exuberance saddened by storms and wind. These sands may still be here, but where will our feet be? This foliage may not be green yet when we dig up yam from mounds; their size testaments of the weight of our arms. Will they wear us feathers? Feed twelve thousand mouths? or blighted by laxity; unplanned plan for failure? INEC, today that lures with play and petals awaits tomorrow to mock its victims. Will our dreams have become mere mantras, recounted mindlessly for their worth in speech, but worthless in deeds? INEC, will our pity to Socratic deities have been in vain? Tomorrow strolls slowly ...