I see in thees dimming eyes  
million mocking falling tears
tears of unknown tales
poured into a calabash to appease the spirits.

Behind those innocent deep ducts you wear   
I see a running river in swift flow
not a waterfall to bath the dirtied feet
of the village goddesses
nor a calm stream to cleanse dying cutlasses of the village farmers. 

Tears that criss-crosses in seventeen lines
and sing drenched bereaved dirges
at the entrance to silent dark coffins
to marry the hearts of muted corpses.

I have seen a land where we shall go
go and no more return into childhood
a land so far from the merry of mortals
yet tells hundreds of tales to the seeds
that shall fall from our stomachs when we are long gone.

The Village Thinker
© All copyrights reserved, 2015

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