My Spirit Longs
My spirit longs to go where the poco drums play
And mother start gyrating and tumble at my feet
My spirit long wrapped in pointed turban to sway
And feel my heart frolicking to each drumbeat.
Then the shepherd looking in a clear glass of water
Would tell of sweet times and disaster
Where we live on the hilly brow of laughter
In strong souls like pigeons in a rafter.
You do not understand, you cannot comprehend
How bondaged by the barren beauty of her breast
The soul comes to it senses and repentance, send
Quivers through a man, full of tiredness.
But when the shepherd twirls his flag, spin our roles
And echo strange tongues without translation
One can almost believe Africa where the sweet Nile rolls
Is home again, and there was no separation.
My spirit long for things, for ancient things where
Pocomania is the door, and mother on the floor
Have left us in her trance, swimming in waters clear
Rising and singing, singing and rising evermore
To the celestial strands. Wake me for I dream
From under the otaheite tree, this is Jamaica
Magnificient her tropic wonders gleam
Wher pocomania opens mystic doors to Africa.
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