I’m black,
a beautiful soul
from whence a glory once ascended
on the humblest scale of beatitude.

Knock at the primal heart of mother earth
and you shall no more with heart split on
how yea I was, a life so prime
in pretty wave of fondness when at each
call to worship
my heart spread overhead in huzzah.

This nostalgia–a reminisce on the crimson
smile of that harmless sun rowing
homeward after each day’s task and
casting glances upon fleshy dreams
I craved

And each heart’s glare at what was
to come,
sweet light in reportage of hope hung on
parapets of dusks
which were to be born after every noon’s

Beneath the antique violet of life’s
satisfaction would each night’s lay thrust
my breath and I to wake in freedom
to tweet with those grateful birds
chanting glorious canticles at dawn.

Pure pleasure light passing by
And the friendly calls of morning air
Would ease a proper wake at each
morning’s birth
thus weighing weighty life on span of
blissful memoir.

Every poise in my earliest sail
On fluttering wings of life,
My eye remembers

But hanging on in this sail,
life, here it turned towards frail in foreign veil
and what else could comfort more than
a will-o-the wisp of a tainted hope?

A sound coated in foreign voice of mystic accent,
that, my ear registers
and fate increasing the keynote of tragedy
culminating every moment in hell-raising stead

Here is a tag hauling me numb and
neglecting the passion with which my
name first soar to soothe a lifeline in
lifetime of fortune.

Towards a strange memory, my head
headed and my feet lying bare on
the meadow of this winter cold,
my pulse breaking into measured slay.

Hunger here in my nook vaunted its vile
Against every strength inspired by
crystalline of daylight strolling in after
each day’s birth and obliging its feat

Catching a sight of each corner of my
room, it rages with flames of raw
and growing old into latest crimes.

And to behold is the jagged clangours
gaiting in pride in my
children’s voices against kinsmen’s blood,
or is it the sharp crunch and fistful pains
slanting through their veins to give a
leading sting?

Cold blood drips off glistening teeth
of hungry swords, and gasping for more.
My face gripping sight of pellets’ flame
curving streaks over roofs and I to bury
my head under the fetid armpit of farcical.

Each weakling in my stead blinks at the
voice of gun powder seizing his daily life
and would a tongue roll in compassionate
tone for fair shake, the body will testify
to every line sucking its blood as
heartbeat to slowly cool in the slope
of life over yonder.

I have climbed piles of stinging days
through decades
and here in silence I sit boiling much
in the heat of my tears

But leaning rearward on the joy
which will again spring at the call
of next morn soon to come,
on this scaffold of hope I stand to say

I’m Africa
A beautiful soul whence glory
will again ascend on the humblest scale
of beatitude










Photo by cottonbro studio from Pexels