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When I’ve gone to the place
where the fathers have gone
before me and the last tribute
has been paid to my memory,
may my singing words crack
the silence with clanging echoes.
And may my clanging echoes
excite starving eyes and taunt
loose eardrums to awareness
and guide them to actions of
liberations yet to come;
And may my clanging echoes
wakeup sleeping souls suffering
the uncertainties of tyrannical rule
slobbering from political absurdities
drooling from mouths of misguided evil
dragons; evil dragons peddling false hope
to precariously lost wanderers;
And may my clanging echoes echo ringing
bells of freedom that can’t be un-rung;
bells of freedom ring-out the sting of death
and denying the victory of the grave.
Yes, poets/griots are willed to die
When the mission purpose is done;
but the ringing chords of their words
will live on: clanging echoes of truths.
