Ancestral Warriors Poem by pepple victor, ida

Dig deep for death in my soil
But he flew before you came, comrade!
The quietness of the waters
The gentleness of my forest.
The full moon is anxious of the season
The season is anxious of death.
The sun sap leaf of life…
Daily distinct cry of my warriors
Dropping stone dead in foreign soils.
Genuine greatness is found after death.
Europeans fight for supremacy,
Africans caught in cross-fire!
Mandela; living legendary godfather
Of the Africanness in Africa.
Africans don’t quite in war.
A true truce is death…
Our blood is boiled in an Earthen-pot of undecipherable
Ingredients of fresh rains, like the intricate love of God and man
The fire is lightened-up by seven-stones
Now fueled by our sweet sweat
Their toil, our inherited greatness
My being is bliss with their Ancestral memories
Like a self-discovered child
I quietly fish for my dreams of endless springs.
Hear the voice! Hear the voice!
Sonorous as a flute washed with palm-wine
Startling though it seems, I harkens
Dig deep for death in my soil
But he flew before you came, comrade!
Our ancestors liveth till tomorrow…
Yesterday I was in love with my African warriors
Now, I passionately adore them!
(To Nelson Mandela, October 2008)