Your voice awakens
the agony of brothers
drowned in their skokiaan tins
of pain
The naked virgin
from your limpid moon – out of
the dead sleep of children –
walks the thorned footpath
of my being
Is it all grief? –
this grey legend
of your night
gives birth to love, hope
gold landscapes
in tears and death
Is it mere sorcery? –
this rhythm swarms
with pagan tentacles upon moments
to baptize the world
with conscience,
and unfurl an aura of innocence
Black woman, you rouse in me a bestial joy
whetting a desire to fight
to plunder, if only to fulfil
the promise,
the gentle gleam of that Canaan
on your horizons
Leave a comment behind