In those acutely native-days;
when lioness where lion, and the birth of death; was rare.
Days; when people fainted in shock, and wept bitterly, when one says; they are now born again Christians.
Because they always thought the person was dead.
Days, when men worked and walked with overdosed ego.
People loved like there was no tomorrow,
and animals moved, with pampered elegance.
But tradition, cried with oversized echo;
for men, twisted the gods appetites,
and came up with malodorous ideas, which where not of the gods; but theirs.
This made the gods roar in their wooden-visions with wooden rages.
People loved the gods so much; that they heed to all the unjust heavy duty rituals, assigned to them.
Just to appease the iron and wooden ego of the gods.
They sobered endlessly; for they where helplessly buried with their kings, gods and chief-priests.
But they remained harmless, for they could not question or fight the gods.
Darkness fell on the smooth skin of the moon; and gave it heat-rash and chickenpox.
Because fathers; sold wives, kids, brothers and extended families.
While friends; sold friends, fathers, mothers and passerby.
And the chief-priest's; sold the gods.
The colour of our voices, and the strength of our culture; where the fire-lights, they used to tow us away, through the rainbow of pain, toad roads, and blood-bushes, which where blessed with odd faces and thirsty hasty white and black masquerades.
It was Africa's blood, it took to grow and cleanse the anger of world.
O my Africa,
although, it runs on half blood and a tin of snuff.
But with pure affection;
it is still so elongated in wisdom, beauty and it wears high-heels, to exhibit how tall she really is; in simplicity and power.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem