So the Gods Dine
The thunder god feasts in his grove,
Then naps ‘twist rainbows up above;
But justice suffers here below,
And we know not which way to go.
April visits recurrent and faithful,
With chunks of sacrifices stuffed full,
Clay pots loaded to breaking limits,
Footprints slow in procession like bandits’
To the sacred ‘Lebiengwi’ where they hide.
Cold ghostly atmosphere instils their might,
A gigantic soldier ant armed and busy,
Take turns round without mercy,
The legless centuries old clay,
Beneath which the gods stay.
So the gods dine.
Fresh season harvest and spotless flock,
Each season made the April stock,
Yet, year after year calamity and death,
Without pity storm in length and breadth.
Like August springs, ceaseless tears run,
Tracing gullies of wrinkled jaws on.
So the gods dine.
Floods in the south battle to take homes,
Eruptions in the north emit foams,
Locust swarms burst from the east,
Gulping every green life and beast,
Then skylarks in their nests cease to fly,
So too indigenes without peace lie.
So the gods dine.
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Red Earth
On the hut-like Mournville anthills,
I stepped to glance at abandoned mills.
But reeds and thistles now grow,
Upon where little lambs fed to grow.
Behind the morbid huts spotted,
Fresh mounts of red earth dotted,
I fashioned a trumpet from green reed,
Perhaps, to summon those warriors indeed.
Behold no soul heeded my call,
As moths and worms from deadwoods fall,
For all had gone with the gunfire,
But mansions above host the least martyr.
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(c) Tembong Denis Fonge