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CRY THE BELOVED CONTINENT… (Apropos The Ripping Veil of Pan-Africanism) In all her blackness her soils run red with the blood of her children Whose bloated bellies mock the pregnancy of liberty And her breasts sag in union with faces of hopeless hopefulness; While hollowed eyes of mourners gaze into the wholeness of nothing--- Smiling death stalks the narrowing corridors of life---echoing souring laughs to virgin wombs screaming from the shadows of the valley of death: But believe brethren--- mock not the gods--- keep plodding; for in the theism of this imposed dystopia, a wretched mother tenaciously clings to time and history.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015

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Date: 2/18/2015 12:24:00 PM
Your words define the heart of good poetry. Excellence in substance and delivery. Emile.
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