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CRY THE BELOVED CONTINENT…
(Apropos The Ripping Veil of PanAfricanism)
In all her blackness
her soils run red
with the blood of her children
Whose bloated bellies
mock the pregnancy
of liberty
And her breasts
sag in union
with faces
of hopeless hopefulness;
While hollowed eyes
of mourners
gaze into the wholeness
of nothing---
Smiling death stalks
the narrowing corridors of
life---echoing souring laughs
to virgin wombs
screaming from the shadows
of the valley of death:
But believe brethren---
mock not the gods---
keep plodding;
for in the theism
of this imposed dystopia,
a wretched mother
tenaciously clings to time
and history.
