He leaves quietly
only his mother, father,
sister, brother know
he spends his last night quietly
in solitude to avoid those eyes
the many wicked treacherous eyes
mouth must speak with caution
not to divulge it or even mention
not to any living or dead soul
else they charm hindrance to his soul
but it has ended.
all these superstition, charm
or whatever you call it has all ended
There is a change in things
new way of celebrating
hullabaloo, gossip, whispering
drinks, dance, music, merry--making
from visa to ticket, departure
to arrival in the whiteman's land
but what is the hue and cry for?
He has to hustle on his neck
just like his fathers in the farms
he is in the factory packing rice bags
to send forty dollars
weep, i weep, for we lose another brain
If and when we would decide to read poetry or a piece of discerning article a day, our world is, then headed for a change. No magic potion whatsoever: if there were, politicians would have used it a long time ago. Our mind is all that we have; the only exception to tricks of all corners and angles. Enjoy the luxury and peace of poetry...
1 comment:
you are typical African representing the modern thinking of Africanism. How do you get your ideas? Don't mind me...
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