In Africa
love is the dark beating drum
heart of the forest
moon smoothed by a million palms
taut as tensed bellies
waiting for night
and the sword thrusts
Hate is the sharp shearing knife
slitting the white woman's womb
skewering her unborn child
on a meat spit
held by a laughing man
Time is the naked Dinka
one legged on the river bank
spear in hand drowsily watching
slow steamers eddy by
Youth is the engineer,
the teacher, the planner,
rudely awakened from the ancient
drum born dream.
Power is black
in the arms of new politicians
chess playing in jetplanes
noiselessly to London
cool over the heat bent
yellowing land.
In Africa
the fossils are not dead but waiting
languages flow like blood
but no codes carry their cryptic information,
uncongealed in alphabet
the words fly free
seeking their own and powerful sense.