O, Smile of Africa!
Yet still bitterly you weep
frankincense tears collected
from the trees of well-scarred
Somalya, cut with long knives!
The season of monsoon
rains a mighty river
of refugee ancestral water:
fleeing Guinea mountain,
trekking Timbuctoo
until at last one arrives
at the open arms of
Mama Patient Ocean.
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2 comments:
I will look at the sap Don is spyling from the maples differently now: francincense tears.
This rings true, as if we're sitting in a ring around a pot on a fire, someone singing and chanting and pounding somewhere within earshot.
I like spyle: collector of Maple tears.
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