(That home of my soul)
This day of a wind’s voice,
shells of snails and tortoise speak,
echoes take their walk from afar,
of a voice that feeds million meanings
to only spirited souls.
This hot noon of the sun’s sacrifice,
mightiest of a woodland seed;
with images of my fathers taking stares,
the breath of an angular tree,
shedding her beauty freely in its leaves fall.
I have come again to this land:
to this soil of my blood;
to listen to the healing voices of my ancestors,
to fetch full of my calabash’s belly,
of divinity and advices from the spirits.
I have come home again;
to this shrine of my ancestors,
to stir the eyes of the gods,
to pay homage to the living souls of my fathers,
that the oracle through the mouth of the priest;
should pronounce divinity,
and wake my spirit from this dream of lost
called misery and cowardice.
The Village Thinker © 2014