I speak of vows and of shallow tongues,
songs of the heroic and the kingsways.
I speak of the dust of thy world and the brown sculptures,
sculptures of the ancient and the incubate of the nation's.
I speak of the neighborhood, and I speak of a silenced, loneliness, and of the gadabout.
Now what do I write of?
I write of tongues, and I speak of hands.
I write of the lost love and the shuttered tongues.
I write of the hidden identities, and the tears of the gloom,
the fallen days and the flowers that received no droplets of the heavy rains.
I write of the idle, of the vain, and of the cripple.
I write of a dream,
an African dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem