Wells Of Our Fathers Poem by Kweku Atta Crayon

Drinking from the wells of our fathers

Holes dug with beak of loves
Papa worked hands of no gloves
Rain and sun were no weather
Days and nights were all days
Papa worked with his self
digging this well of his blood
a water of blood to quench our future

Earth to Sky, was no tall a tree
Papa climbed and stole the sun
erased the rainbow
collected the stars from the skies
and slapped the clouds
all to force down rains
to satisfy these wells

Papa was brutalized
he was whipped by rods of tomorrow
he could cry out his sorrow
but he smiled for more lashes
all to make this future bright and flashy

To the depth of this well
he measured not
all he wanted was a well
dug, dug and dug till he got lost in earth

Where would we have been
if Papa was you or me?
what would we have eaten
if Papa had education and also wore suits?
What would have been our names
if Papa had swallowed western culture?

Today we carrying on our lazy heads
buckets and pans of empty stomachs
fetching and drinking
red wines from the wells of our fathers
ignorant we are
that we drinking the blood of our fathers
from their own wells.