Solace To the Sun
Each day mother opens her cupped hands to sun's benediction,
Opens her spaces too, to the multi-choired rhythm of life and the wings
Of the world touches her like whispers of leaves
On dew-bathed trees.
Here's her land of scattered stars - the fragile glass of gemstones
Where diverse tongues whisper aches from dreams of yesteryears;
Here too, where laughter embrace the soft flesh of renaissance,
The logic of love brewed in honey and hemlock...
For mother Africa, still the eye-candy of capitalists
Propped along plenipotentiaries of power and privelege
Could only grunt commands to the wind, a perplexed mother
On grip of grief. How could we harmonize her without guilt?
Mother of mine, strong and rich, she seeks to follow
The humming rhythm of the hoe, loads of fresh fruits and cereal
She harvests, a yield from her field, squares of acres she owns
On this unceasing battleground of the undespairing masses.
She's kind and selfless like the spirit of the sun-god, and we're
The stream flowing through the veins of her burdens,
The pulsing spirit of her soul, we who attempt
To kill her sun with muscle power of unholy hands.
This is my voice, the sole sound of my teardrop -
That today I become the dream on the path of hope to speak of
Light in the labyrinths of lust; to curve out songs on my palms.
Feel their rhythm bounce like a baby and then bounce back
Like an echo to the unsettled seat of harvested dreams.
May God bless our sun and the belly that grows green
In the rain so that we may arise as a race, cupping in our arms
Our dreams and desires like bundles of stars.
Copyright © Milton Manyass | Year Posted 2013
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