The Shrine Poem by Kojo Owusu

Benign secluded grove fretted with sequins
Of awe and wonder – where sober stare
And stern silence, unsettling, foreboding
Awakes the drooping façade of the wilted
Huts and the will of the immortals fall
To wash away the fears of the folks.
Lone. You stand in the impenetrable bush
And scatter seeds of life on the granary floors.
The eaves tremble and the rafters proclaim
Your presence. The wandering feet on the
Ancient threshold sees your unapproachable
Fire, your eternal flares. The gurgling stream
Murmurs your healing cadence and the caves
Echo your dreadful warning. The central arena
Shakes with your invisible feet. Your burning
Logs brightens the face of the griot and
The groping young hearts that gather around
Him. The griot filled with your power tells
Of your life sustaining presence and the
Expected initiation. The spiritual journey.
The norms, the traditions, the values
Emanating from the sacred shrine.
That would eventually be imparted to the
Growing minds, the delicate souls.
Then comes the time for the young men
To be clutching machetes and flywhisks
Wielding the fierce instruments
Of life and death of sorrow and joy.
Then paying homage to mother earth
Shaking their legs wreathed with dangling
Beads, singing songs of maturity and
Fulfillment, invoking the gods to arm them
To fight, to fit into the community.
Then the talking drums and the pouring
Of libation. Then the charming maidens
Their breasts dangling in their clothes
And their swaying waists. Their alluring
Songs pouring innocently from their throats.
The beads around their hands and necks
And waists, the bangles around their
Legs clanging inauspiciously.
The pretty hands holding the pots
And the deft movements, the black
Beautiful bodies dripping with incense
Perspiration. Shimmering in the sun.
The feast of the immortals and the delight
Of the sacred shrine. The ancient men
Blessing, sprinkling water and the
Old women unveiling the feminine
Mystery to the maidens. The ecstatic
Crowd rejoicing, the children in tatters
Indifferent yet attentive, the elders imparting
What the ancestors thought, felt and experienced.
And who can discern in the delirious songs
The destruction of the divine shrine?
Who saw imminent ruin in the charming eyes
Of the maidens. What fetish priest dare
Make known the end of the shrine.