The Stillborn Poem by pere isaac afezu

Before this Africa
The confused fertile cry of
A fertile mother pleaded the
Habits of a familiar visitor
That has seen no reason for its hunt
The hunting child come forth several
Season, boasting the gods over itself
Snatching the rhythm of a poet
To find a reason to live.
But no. the heavy cry of a mother,
The sweat and tears from her breast,
The cry of the poet’s pen,
All bring forth a remorseless
Baobab tree rich in new feathers

Now in this Africa,
Triggered off again
You have set forth a new harvest
Between the hours of night and day.
The stillness of your flesh and joints
At birth is now your killing song
Tired of bangles and swordfish scars
Timor mortis conturbat them[1]
But so you think………..
The legend is drowning
And you show forth the height
Of your fiendishness which marks
An end to your story by the
Growing man

[1] timor mortis conturbat them: latin phrase meaning ‘’fear of death disturbs them’’t

(16/11/2008)