CRY THE BELOVED CONTINENT

 

 

     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.