Native Pot Of My Mother
Thou land that carries me
When shall you free me to my people?
For my tradition forgot I in thy land
Now imbibe I my deeds and beliefs
From your tradition and belief
Like you once conceive' me in your womb
Wherein my true identity is unknown
To me thy offspring you gave as companions,
Thy daughter you gave me to wife,
Thy factory bed I lay my skull,
And from the harvest of your soil bought myself flesh
Even my replicas all in your color
And never in a moment was I homesick.
My better-half know not the land of my bones,
And they that put on my flesh know not of my source.
Thus never made I my land known to them.
Alas! Now hungry are the worms of my tafawabelewa,
And not of your strange delicacies
But from the native pot of my mother.
O', you black pot, your contents is beyond delicious;
My tripartite being seeks thy contents.
In thee was I fed till out of blunder?
Your reminiscence reflecting in my mirror;
My memory reflects on your firewood,
The black smoke, and your delicious contents;
Home must I go to feed from this pot again
In this twilight of my life ere I'm ice-block.
Ah! There is no pot like my mama's black native pot.
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