Statue
At the park, there’s a man built of black stone
He stands shamed with an indifferent rifle that yawns at the sky
His stallion is frozen in gallop, to be forever majestic
In the sweltering day, the man stands
In the shivering day, he finds no reprieve
Lore tells; that an anchor dropped at the edge of the raven’s ocean
And from the boat came bones, blood and flesh dressed in snow.
Before the man was stone, he was bones and blood
he was flesh white as snow
and he declared the raven’s land his own.
Folk says that he stood before my first cry
that his horse ran the breadth of this land without tire
and his rifle spoke without falter, the language of rifles.
and his command, just to him and his,
reveled in the shadows of unmarked graves and clipped wings
By law of the weapon
The raven shall want for shelter, he shall be three fifths of a man
because he is bones and blood and flesh that is dressed in soot.
He shall wash the stallion and feast on whatever it manures
for the law of the weapon.
Before my first cry, the raven forgets to be afraid
and sprouts from the shadows behind the dark side of the sun.
A raven’s spawn wasn’t meant for walking,
In the sweltering day and shivering winds a clipped wing must grow to the sky
and I, the spawn of the raven, shall never learn to fear again.
Copyright © Bantu West | Year Posted 2024
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