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.