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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The moon has groaned home; And soon the shadow’s drum, Resonates the rhythmic silhouette, To the ferocious pains of the spine; Hear the heavy throbs of the drum, The panting steps of the trumpet, And the singing sage of the flute. See as she curved patiently In the wind, and twist her shanks, Directly towards the sun, this swange: The great dance that has survived, The war of nature, the drift of time, And the shadows of silent wars. As she sprint to no where, a darts, Then bend to finish it all in a day, With hands spread to the sun--- And legs resisting a visit of the moon. Like a snake, she twist in trance, The petroglyps of carribbean trace, The black race’s paws of pride, Now, history has danced to your tunes. I can barely hear the movement Of your soul in the heart of my soul And as the trumpet rent the air; Her moves changes, her eyes dimming. Many passers-by left mouths wide, To the ferocious shock of her dance The dexterity of her posture, dangling, When you think of her waist___ Then, the community of her back, With ridges and robes of nature, As I watch her in the craft, I sigh! Silently in my noisy heart. They sing and dance through, Smiling blissfully as if her body Is only made of tissues and no bones. Where have you pressed your pressure? She reminds me of my tradition, That descendant’s meld of mild. If home I reach, then shall I squeeze, Myself in her fold like a wrinkled hag. Oh Swange!, she revamps the dead Spirit in the hallows of my being, And now I’m whole in the hole of my life. The syncopation and its vibration That storm the Inertia, growing, Soothingly, the goosebumps on my skin. ___This is the dance of the spirit; With the doughty of your dancers, And the lapidary of the drummers, That has intoxicated the veins of my soul. The bilious nature of your rhythm, Has continued the confusion in my head, And I stand to commend your craft and art, To reward your efforts effortlessly, As topping the chart of singers and dancers. Swange is cruel, it has charmed my mind, And enticed direction of my thoughts, It is really gentle and fiercely rough. You have encapsulated the catercorner, The so soothing sobs of the bleeding heart, And dragged me upon the pool of love, Of chaste, and of peace, the hopes of Isle, Leaving me in the state of shawl sallow, I will caress your rapscallion, your thirst. And many have fallen deeply into The lycanthropy of the serendipity, Scouring and hiding the rendition Of your serene utopia, a threnody To the snatches and the old dry bones. Swange is fearless and swange is a dream, It has defile the harmony of our insecurity, And gave us peace with joy in obscurity, With the most genteel empirical facts, Swange is the nude African damsel, Who has invited me to a silent dinner, And I took the part of her seductive caress. That snake like tribal dance of the Tiv’s, Has raped out virtue and now I’m deflowered! I have dug myself a shallow sepulchre, For I have heard the cause of my doom, This Swange has sweep away sense in my sight.
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