Our modest calabash
from the finest clay made
by the best hands moulded
the smoothness of its features
the roundness of its curves
the coolness of its interiors
but a few of its rich characteristics
Within its blossom
lies our rich milky wine
tapped uninterrupted from
the erect dam of nature;
under a thatch at sunset,
its alluring spell
binds souls of diverse
works and walks
into a bundle, oblivious
of diversity
Like a breath of malodorous air,
with the suddenness of lightning,
came the 'fathers of civilization'
in their ravenous rape
was our calabash broken
into millions of unrecoverable rubbles
our wine flowing waste
like tears of mourning
unrecoverable from the sucking earth
In its place came the
steel vessels of civilization
as cold as death's touch
filled with death's agent itself
beating holes into the souls of men
the joyful spell of the thatch
at sunset, broken....
When shall we bend to pick
the pieces of our broken heritage
shall we again taste the sweetness
of our ancestral palmy
shall we again sit under the thatch
at sunset to drink, to laugh,
to melt into one, regardless of
our diversity
shall we be able to patch our
broken calabash again?
This, my sincere doubt
for the tide is
higher than our momentum;
but the day the tide turns,
shall i not be ready to embrace it?
