L
Ike the small flowers of green th
Ick h
Ills
W
Ith fragrance, d
Id her words; bloom
W
Ild yet pass
Ionate
In love, are the tr
Ibal''s
So was hers, for them and the
Irs
Sad was her heart, at the jungle''s ru
In
Starved was her pen, of any words
To the ch
Ildren, she lent a vo
Ice, there
In
To save the jungle, her poetry and b
Irds
Wh
Ile plant
Ing seeds, w
Ith hope they croon
Cast your mag
Ic, of l
Ife, dearest monsoon
As the clouds poured, and lent some l
Ife
To l
Ife, the jungle sprang, and they all sang
L
Ike the mother herself, she nursed and cared
Days later, the deers came sm
Il
Ing
For l
Ifet
Imes, shall the tr
Ibals s
Ing, her pra
Ise
Her story of l
Ife, her pen; st
Ill flow
Ing.