African Relics

These relics are odes to creation: From planets to fragments of atoms. Certain turning of the sun; crooked fork Of the trees and their sprawling branches; Flowering knot, water curve, living roots; The stern murmur of ancestral spirits; Divine drumming that once boldly declared; The radiant, resplendent rose pink dawn; That once proclaimed the tribe's soul blood, But now sealed up in solemn glass cases, A vibrant universe lies paralysed. Cold, colonial eyes framed and reined in This continent's abundant mysteries; Where black was once the scorned colour of sin. Unruly, ferocious flames of conquest, Created a spurious enigma. Now we continually interrogate The tainted beauty of the wreckage. These relics are not merely icons to Be righteously revered and worshipped, But precious prayers to the elements. Although they have been brought closer to us They remain as remote as evening stars, We might want their mute eyes and mouths to glow; Speak directly to us like oracles. Yet they will never submit their secrets To our crude, secular consciousness. I sense the vital dance of life traduced To grey, utilitarian matters In the guise of curious inspection I sense obscure mysteries Trapped in an expedient age Where we freeze their grace and power. I sense the murmur of ancestral spirits: " Yamaya - mother of tender blessings Yamaya - boundless womb of creation Your poetry is lost in translation."