Worlds and words again

Worlds and words again...

A golden ring across my yard blasts its view.

With trailing dazzles beside shinny trucks.

Right on my tattered yard, soothing words he hew.

With coated trunk and ivory husks..

I've heard of worlds and still words again.

Of Silvery crowns and dripping gain.

I've seen innocence turn dark.

And white linen turn crimson on his back.

For years we've lived while age runs her course.

While from the coast the miner counts his loss.

When dark shiny cars graced this terrain .

And heads raised high in bid to their royal train.

Infant words faded away before the wake of dawn.

Their hearts as rigid as ivory once their prize is horned.

For there was a night before the iroko tree was fell.

And the market place became bald with regret.

When around the mother tree we sit and laugh.

And the little ones heard tales from grey staff.

Of cities with great long-legged golden girls.

But now the night is quiet and mute.

Devoid of wanton tales and humorous flute.

The old grey staff had long since dried.

Only flakes and empty nights for the moon to chide.

O black masters! I salute your apothesis!

Furnished with the sweats of your earthly brothers

Saviours you claimed to be; our royal patriots.

As bait, you gave us promises and empty chariots.

Our lands once fertile,now fail to swing forth graceful heir

All waste and exploits with patches everywhere.

For with your advent came the great metal age.

That tilled the land and drained her of her age.

For tomorrow my friend, when your trail goes beyond the mountains.

Tell the black masters in their flowing robes and palm tree fountains.

That their gait we see,

but all their promises...

Are now old and all rotten carcases...

Dried up in empty catacombs.

Let them know;

That the mouths that once sings their praise.

And hail them heroes of the white ivory race.

Are now shrivel and and full of sore.

The little ones that once tugged at the hem of their robes

 now swim...

In the cesspool of ignorance.

For there are no walls to open their minds.

No classrooms to warm the bubbles

Of their simple hollow brain.

Their frames all bony and thin

For all the yams from our lands

Lie breathing heavily in your barns

All the spoils of age old work

Are sew richly deep within your fabrics..

For but a moment not too soon and not too late..

We stoop

And ask ourselves then,

Where are all the kings of yesterday?

In the hollow recess of our mind

The answer reverberate

In one solemn wave

...all here in one bed lay...

Then we know and truely believe

That there are words and yet worlds again..