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Inside the African Pot
In her eyes i saw me,
the very inner man that vanished from this earth,
here i am laughing from the depth of my very soul,
unearthing the spirit that was covered with a pot.
tell me my love, to whom do i owe this gratitude
when the hunter now hunts with his catapult
the gun then becomes bored to shame.
the days of the hamattan ceased to flourish
the moment of endless rain is dew
when we will cover our lonely bodies with garments
that are made of sacks of gold dusts,
and lie solemnly in our huts
waiting to see tomorrows face.
tell me my pot of gold
to whom do i owe this gratitude,
that has shielded my feet with sandals,
quenched my belly with food
tell me! so i may praise aloud.