Kris Atta Pappoe

Rookie (Akuse, Ghana)

Two Thousand Seasons - Poem by Kris Atta Pappoe


Two thousand seasons of yesterday,
Two thousand seasons of whips and lies
Blindfolding the embryo future into the limbo of Time.
Oh! You who tread on the balls of the Sun………..
Listen! ! !
You who tread on the balls of the waning moon. ………..
St Iago of the swollen testes
Reaping where you have no right
Who told you I live where?
From the day Caramansa took your
Free gin and grinned,
And your tobacco that tasted better than my desire and freedom,
Then followed two thousand seasons of sorrow and blood
And my tears that daily fly.

I did not need to be born
To know the legacy of hatred
You were leaving me.
Nor the shame and humiliation.
That is to be my patrimony.

Grim walls of my false fate.
You grim walls that have witnessed
The shadows of time,
And the magma cries of a strangled generation,
You stand as a monumental mockery
To the treachery of my blood.

Beneath your battlements,
I see files upon files of my shadow
As they are silently swallowed into the Azure.
I hear their farewell dirges
To the land never to be seen again.
But I also hear the triumphant cries
Of the Devils Brood
As with whips and guns they drive me on.
On and on into centuries of hate,
Exploitation and servitude.
On and on, into the unknown
From which I shall emerge
Neither black nor white nor brown.
And my tears fall fast.
But I cry and cry alone
Into the Void

Waking into the alloys of my second self
Where I kiss this land of my servitude and shame
like a devotee Of death.
I sing anthems alien to my soul’s desire
Forgetting that I am lost in time…
Oh! Land of my life and death,
Sanctify me.
Where shall I go but to the Lord.
In the land of strangers and lords,
I look for my soul’s freedom.
Far, far, beyond the Azure,
I hear the ghostly voices
Calling out to us left behind.
Warning us beware of the new Breed.
Whose forbears desecrated us as a race
And sent our gods into perpetual exile.
Those who made our land a nameless desert
And our sacred songs a whistle in the wind.
The Ancestral called:
Warning us,
Those left behind,
The Survivors….
Beware of the new Breed.
I turn away, tears welling in my eyes.
Beyond Sorrow,
Beyond Help and Mercy. For Barrack Obama
44th President of the United States of America
On his visit to Cape Coast Castle, Ghana

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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 7, 2009

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