Because in the garden
And we love
When tangled in her loose wrapper
Hearing the story of her nine months
In the womb of the earth
And of fire.
Who sees the beauty in the fragile fetus
The unformed joy for a full population
And schedules dozens of ante-natal handshakes
To hold in a jar
The beginnings of an era,
Who tastes the beauty in the steaming pots
To balance the beans, the yam, and the rice
In a palate of alluring aromas
That swell and quench the hunger
And the thirst?
Who feels the beauty of the clean, soft, billowing curtains
Swiping across sand-free lounges
To guide the finishing
Of after-school tasks and projects
To invite the warmth of siesta
And the rest for his tired, spreading frame
After a day's hard job?
Not he alone, not he alone
Knows this need
To ease the unease.
For in the shops
She sells with smiles
But counts with a frenzied glare
The glints and wads of a hard-earned reward.
At the office
As doctor, lawyer, teacher, banker
And as a figure of all the myriad labours
That the lay could lay on
To poke into sore nerves
Pore into files
Pave the future of green-eyed learners
And seal the deals that finance their tomorrows
Through a thousand labours.
In this no-jungle arena
Wrestling with the future is a hard-won fight
Coaxing the blooms,
Trimming the edges
Need the heartbeat
Of a full-breasted warrior.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem