and towns burnt blunt
in the rich man’s kitchen pots simmered
on the street the maimed sidled on haunches
late night the woman’s hand was a vow
the child played with sticks in the dust
in bookstores paper voices murmured
in execution chambers people swung from ropes
like pendulums over a topography of life
from mountain peaks there was smoke in the valley
birds warbled in the darker copse
islands were floating arks on the horizon
what a wonderful journey it was
across continents and seasons
18.
Silently and without cover You should cross the dark stream —
The riverbank trees have an abundance of mute birds
With twilight eyes;
Besides, that burning hat on your head
Is not yours.
Goodbye. One must always go well. Hamba kahle.
New York, November 2004
NOTES
1
Khère is ‘stone’ in Wolof.