The sounds rounded our lonely skies/among the nims the dancers gather their cloths/stretching their new-shorn hides off offered cows/to build themselves new drums.
News+Rescue / Via newsrescue.com
Within the airwaves we carry
our hutted entrails; and we pray;
shrieks abandoned by lonely road-sides
as the gunmen's boots tramp.
I lift up the chalice of hyssop and tears
to touch the lips of the thirsty
sky-wailing in a million spires
of hate and death; we pray
bearing the single hope to shine
burnishing in the destiny of my race
that glinting sword of salvation.
Via goafricafund.com
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