Lights on the shore
that was our port,
that was our fort;
and wind swaying scenes
that we know
aside,
while the sea shells
stand aside,
season aside to make
mouths at us
birds on the stems,
pecking at the scare-crows
to call the farmer home,
who then shall follow,
with white shirts
the dance of his father
as tractors bite down
the yam god
and the squirrels skip about
making faces at us?
Stand
You that hate not
and praise not
these shifting scenes,
season and blow
the horn of Rebisi;*
that we,
who shall hear
the cock at night
and see the red snake at day
and they that shall follow,
bow not
when the sea shells
season aside
making mouths at us.