WHAT IS MY NAME? |Day 93
When I sleep to understand Africa,
My Muse is of a drunken drummer
Controlled by his ancestors
And with a blade of expectation
To sharpen the sharp sand
Of our moonlight tales.
I am an Afrikan,
Breed of a musical hut,
Song of serene moan;
I am the drop of hope
Passing through veins
Into the womb of barrenness.
I am an Afrikan,
A prince dancing at a distance
Without the descent of culture;
My identity is no longer
The beats of the drum,
My voice is no longer the flute
That echoes to be a vuvuzela,
I am a tatters-of-cemented-traditions.
When I watch the hills,
Fathers have fled without our palm wines,
Mothers have breasted-away poison
Instead of identity.
What is my name?
An African child.
What is my dream?
Uncertainty.
Hit harder this drum of identity,
Don't let her waist-away her beads
Of identity to strangers;
Hit it harder because tomorrow,
We might go back to Belgian zoo.
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Wow your poem is filled with creativity
I'm also an African child i Love it
I Love this part the more
I am an Afrikan,
Breed of a musical hut,
Song of serene moan;
I am the drop of hope
Passing through veins
Into the womb of barrenness.
Hmm the ending phrase about the zoo do you mean going back as slaves, i really like this
Good piece friend really worth the read
'going back as slaves' I think that's what he met.
OK i figured thanks friend @kingspiration
You are welcome
Oh i didn't even notice this you should have put an African picture since its about Africa because the hand is definitely not African hmm or maybe a South African in all wonderful poetry
I have to give a standing ovation for this.
Wonderful piece of writing.
Many thanks for sharing @riahdex.
I must hold my head high and proudly proclaim that I am An African Child