(echoes of our oblivion)

Barricaded, the drums have lost its traveling pathway in our ears
the palace have lost their ancient proverbial voices
blanksheets and chapters of void stories
swallowed and pricked by salsa shoes in bikinis
the aroma of wise-men caged in a barrel of the ‘wisest’
in dreams we have seen minds peaked beyond
the lizard no longer eats locusts but leaves
frogs and toads swim no more in ponds but brewed waters of the calabash
calamity has befallen the hunter in the forest;
his gun stolen by dwarves, gun-powder caught by webs
as darkness drains the seeds of light from the hut.

Our minds have slipped under the skirt of light
illusions have betrayed our trust from seeing the miracle of the moon
obliteration have kept her sternest eyes on us
we sit by the streams of thoughts
washing and bathing the dirth on our fingers
and all we keep doing is drinking and drinking
to the jollification of contemporary feet
that dance dust into the eyes.

Green leaves wither without symphonies of the harmattan
a mighty nation ones stood on this mountain
beauty filled its quarters, plentiful fueled its cheeks
dreams were birthed, courage was an endowment
but when the storms of strangers waved their hands against its mud walls,
doom filled the caps and laid low nudity for embrace.

We have walked past the shadows of faith,
seen to seem the fate of another on our shoulders
we bear not the traits of our ancestors
salvation (the hyena coercing the lambs) is but a supremacy calling
whimpers of anthills buried within the heart of centipedes
creeping servants climb down memorial tunnel
sliding and escaping through a tiny hole of death.

The drums; the rains, the sun have all kissed shame
the birds, the lingiust, the spider have all embraced guilt
our fathers, mothers and children have all been encompassed by ringworm prevarication
in our vibrating dilemma of recollection,
moonlight beamed from a hide on a carved wood
the palms have no wounds, no cracked mounds
with the prayers of our ancestors reincarnate itself no more
lies bagged in sacks have deprived our only seedling of truth
we have substituted spirituality with pietism
married diabolic omen over symbolistic sanity
but do we ever sit to ponder over what shall be of our seeds
when the wind of coldness blow through our homes?

The rhythms of the drums, have leaked through our colander ears
we back-turn and see no drummer
reality have eluded the mighty nation
chains of the flutist roamed in our buckled minds
the survival in the forest is not for the fittest
so is for the rise of a fallen wiseman
by the fire-side, the drums have ceased their whispers
soon the last of our blood shall be drained
to feed vultures and appease malices of cockroaches.

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
(The Village Thinker)
© All Copyrights Reserved, 2015 ….. 27/05/15′

Posted from WordPress for Android


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s