UNTITLED
I will tell the police
And call your mother
I will write ‘The Times’
And copy the gods
That you are the sweetest woman alive
That you are the thief who stole my heart
And kept it betwixt the roundness of your thigh.
The Bent Backs of our Fathers
Proud warriors in ancestral savannahs...is this your back that is bent. ~David Diop Sweat shed on ancestral savannahs Blood from our grandfathers' labours The bent backs of our fathers The pains of the proud warriors And the songs of our grandmothers Have all gone to ciphers We are history’s refrain, a tragic chorus of cycles This is not a disease, yet Our backs are bent like those before us This time from the toils we choose Our ancestral warriors in awe Watch us writhe in new pains Only this time not on the plains But in the cold gloomy northern winters Where we forget the songs of our grandmothers Who will save us now that we have gone too far Beyond the reach of our mother's voice and The long warm fingers of the sun.
Comments
Post a Comment