Beau Botschuijver at pexels.com
Africa dreams of me. On her face, As she lies in her ever increasing wake, reflecting the murmurs of her broken sun. Pulling down the perpetual weight of strange men, mending, renewing her garments, in the fiery heat of her separated sun. She cannot hide to her weakness, she's not able to run. Existing in the Knowing, the returning Light from the yielded one. Africa dreams of me. On her belly, As she heard whispers of me in her dust, weighing into sharing the murmurs of our broken sun. Pointing me to steady my feet against our rugged planes, averting scattering fires that loom, Her threads exposed: my soul undone. She leans into every hurt, dedicated to the liberation of her separated one. Borrowing and hiding pain in her pockets, the jewels set to crown the Light to her yielded sun. And when all the stars grow silent and hide themselves in the shadow of the full moon, She whispers, Still, I am beside you, I’ll see you through, and I’ll hold your hand, I’ll help shape your eyes and find what lies beyond the horizon, to find an unsearchable land. And as we dream, and as we wait, Tempering, holding the silver line of heritage, shared in our nakedness, Celebrating impressions upon the curvatures of our lungs, hands and feet, Heartening the lights that govern as they amplify the rhythms to our vibrant sacredness, Our lights keep returning in our dances to the Faithful, Reminiscent Beat. I remember now, that I’ve always had dreams for Africa, but more so, That Africa dreams of me.
Darwis Alwan on pexels.com
I enjoyed reading this Licinda.