Fanon

I was planning on going to Azania to die like you No one would transport me Away from the rhetoric, and Fidel left before I knew. So I wrote on walls Endless missives of declarations for freedom. I made words into missiles But saw no gore, nor body bags, and I wept. If mine was only a mask I would be another them The drums heart throbbing would tell me nothing Except where to board the ship and work my fare Until I stood in cordite fumes and carbine glare. I say it securely, but I am not sure How much of me is recoverable from the past And how much of you was lost There are so many broken things in a broken history So many false images in the cobweb of lies If thinking becomes a chain Unless I think like God again. What would you say Zimbabwe now, this global mirror In which we must adjust the self against the self? What would call a man that keeps no vow So that he may keep a vow? Is not all love a compulsive obsession When you believe in its truth? I am hanging mask on wall tonight, I am going out To look up at stars and name them all after you.