To Africa’s past—-——
The mountain that lost his height to curse,
is now an innocent impotent.
His tears are the dripping bile;
basketing itself in her unfortunate past.
He sat chanting:
“the chains, these chains”
are still a forged wound in my skin.
O’ soul saving optimistic!
The tree is still a fig
I hold my own half of the mirror.
I bake my own half of the loaf in the oven.
It’s my own saliva eaten by its tongue.
Its a personal spiritual episteme.
Those who have a reason
to do this windward justification
have a reason to bear the chin of a dwarf
yet in the tunnel to the shrine
things are clear and crystal
slavery and colonialism
both teeth of woes
benefited not a single soul.
The Village Thinker © 2014