Thursday, 28 June 2012

Mother Africa’s lament:

These trees will turn to sand and your footprints
will lead you many miles away - be still my children
and do not oppose the fingers with your thumbs;
it is a deceit of technology, control moves further away
the more you create. Do not shed your mother’s fur
so that you may hunt, for the running will take you
far, far away and your Mother will lie here, breasts
empty and a hollowness where her womb should be.

I know the lure of flint, see the thirst grow for blood,
how it thickens the neurons and expands the brain
but upright is not the only answer, my daughter or son,
and at the end of all the days the ocean will not sing
for you or your children - will never sing for you.

The ocean dreams other dreams -
ones I left behind in that faraway time
before I rose in my fashion
and started my own journey away from home.

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