Land of my birth



I have come again to this land of my birth
to this land where my navel was deeply buried between her  twin breasts
o’ land of the spirits of my fathers’ 
I stand in lonesomeness at the bank of this devouring river
with brown kola plucked from the sacred wild forest
a calabash filled with palm wine fetched before the last seventh market day
I am caught in the webs of myths and wits
stricken beyond silent horripilation by songs of old
I am versed beyond dying eyes of life by unfolded tongues of the gods

While I stand under this danka dua of old
my soul walks in it emptiness
feelings of loneliness grips me by the shoulder
times of old lost between the ills and malevolence of this  generation
I have lost count of the smiles of the aging moon
she no longer smile for the squirrel hunter
where can I find that last griot whose tongue holds the tales of old?

But before this cold air takes me to the land of my ancestors
let  this calabash I hold carved out from the belly of peace
with deep whispers from my throbbing heart
bring forth thousand apparitions to the huts of my kinsmen
let the future of the fertile womb of these beautiful maidens
come home once more with victory songs
through the mightful mouth of reincarnation
that this land shall once more set sail of old
in search for the lost gray and sage of the spirits of our fathers

The Village Thinker
© All copyrights reserved, 2015

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