SOMEWHERE IN AFRICA

Somewhere in Africa, Men gather like budding ants, Drawn from far and near To the soil of the negroes’ giant, Chanting as one, an armada’s chain: “Let a new earth rise, Let another world be born, Let a fragile peace Be etched across the sky.”

Yet the giants dance in folly, Blind to their looming doom. They shatter peace for rage, Bury the old, serene earth, And birth a world of horror.

The minstrels sing on: “Let a bold generation rise, Full of courage, loving freedom, Ready to claim their place.”

But this masks a covenant betrayed— Our past, present, and future Traded for a kingdom of violence By khaki men of a shadowed world.

I crave liberty, yet I’m denied. Are the gods to blame? In the darkness of my thoughts, The band leader whispers low: “Let a beauty full of healing, A strength of final resolve, Pulse within our spirits And course through our blood.”

I plead for meaning, tears in eyes. “Survival of the fittest,” he replies, “Like scarification’s lasting mark— Great pain for greater gain.” I weep, finding no remedy.

Like a ghost denied aljana, I stumble on a quatrain’s truth: “Let martial songs be sung, Let dirges fade away, Let the race of men now rise And seize the reins of day.”

My heart kindles as I muse: Is this a feathered apocalypse? Where is the Theresa to dry our tears? From where will these men rise? Will freedom ever spill our blood?