Somewhere I heard a Negro cry...Of talk buried deep in dreams...The words more ours came back to me...Savage lines against my memory...Black hands and feet and faces...The act of heritage past...My pen; Responding to the fury in my mind...Like a blade of grass bending to the wind...My language was theirs...Their pain was mine...I spoke as if it was a second tongue...My rage has captured my poems utterly...As I write the pencil inflict deep sore...Wounded I edit...Gnawing away at these foreign Vocabularies to make the maniac statement...And let the spirit live
I married a wife from Ille Ekpoma
So I know ekpoma market
I went to school in Irrua
So I know Irrua market
My mama comes from Uromi
So I know uromi market
My aunty come from Agbede
So I know agbede market
I know Ishan well well o
1 comments:
wow!!! he is beautiful! lucky you. A SON!!!
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