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Returnees

17 Jan

Today under the baobab tree brightened by the fire of the dry acacia branches

The bones speak the message of the ancestors to us

As cowries scream over the chattering bones like a child’s teeth in the rain.

The high priest in his antelope and chameleon hide clothes

Beats the drum made from ant skin

His lips speak proverbs with adages as answers

Eyes that see beyond what eyes see when they see what eyes see

And the tongue that chants songs that we barely understand

Orchestrate this ceremony to harvest these lies we call us

And replant our true selves in us

Like the blind man we need not be told it is raining

For so long have we span these lies we spent fortunes on

And tried convince ourselves that they were the truth

We forgot that no matter how black a cow is, its milk is always white

And so we spat into the same pot that fed us as infants

But today we shall eat from this same pot

After rubbing our buttocks against the porcupine’s

We have run to the home we urinated on, for our sores to be dressed

So here we stand on this sacred ground

Like lost sheep we have returned home

 
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Posted by on January 17, 2012 in Poems

 

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