The Incandescence of the Wind by Ben Okri

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The incandescence of the wind

bothers me

in this vineyard.

Is there a searing clarity

about the noises

rising daily

from this riverbed we call our own?

The yam-tubers bleed our sorrows.

Crows in the fields

scream of despair.

Machetes pollute our food

with rust.

The masters conduct their

plunderings

with quiet murders:

The victims perform maypole dances

around the village shrines.

There is a cold fire in the air.

I hear it

consume the groins

of heroes

and shrivel the guts

of martyrs.

The name of the fire

is printed on grave stones:

names squeezed from tubers of life

and collective cowardice.

At night mothers scream

of children lost in the city fires

of children lost in neon signs

and cellars of madness.

I hear noises from the streets:

men are lost in files

or have wandered

into the fractured severity

of military gun-shots

have become a generation

drenched in petrol

camp-fired

and barbecued

in the fevers

of elections

riots

coups.

The incandescence in the air

burns inward.

Is there a name for this fear?

Is there a fearful country

in these fields

where such realities are

manufactured whole?

I heard a secret

in the burning iron of the mornings.

Animals

have delivered eggs of blood.

Women

have discovered the secret

of an inviolable flesh-haze.

There are multiple deaths

in the riverbeds

and junkyards

polluting our world

with an irascible sense

of failure.

Shall we join them

or shall we celebrate

the vision of empty offices

the short-sightedness of power.

Break the bread

of initiation into

revolt:

We shall celebrate with our

emaciated chests.

We shall clench and raise our fists

in the wonder of incandescence.

I hear a light

bursting up through

the bright blue roots

and the yellow skeletons.

We have breathed

our self-love in those bones.

We have breathed

incantations

at those worms

that ravage our serenity.

The graveyards heave.

The riverbeds sigh.

And I wake surprised:

– the incandescence has become

our own

– the skeletons have reclaimed

the lands

– a new spirit breathing phosphorous

has grown

into the blue roots of the times.