Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

                                 I

In Africa,
Many centuries back,
Before,
De Azambuja,
And Diaz,
Had Docked,
And with the Eyes,
And Heart, 
Of Cortez,
And Pizarro,
And set  foot,
On our Shores,
Which events,
Forever,
Will change our future,
Gods often,
 Paid visits,
 To the Market,
On Market Days,
But he is no god,
He is a man,
A man,
Whom as a child,
In violent shivering,
And tremoring of hands,
Is served the bitter herb,
For his portion,
On the plate,
And with the peace that  grounds Suns,
To their Places,
He eats the bitter herb,
With love,
That is the Rock,
On which Christ is Grounded,
He beams to the Earth,
Radiating the human heart,
To all,
With  my elephant's soles,
I  have heard the vibrations,
The rumblings,
From miles away,
I hear the violent sounds,
Of the Bell,
The Alarm,
Pounding fiercely,
White hot,
Like Bell,
Who has been my Tutor,
Bearing a Teutonic name,
I am from a Tributary of the Niger,
Called Volta,
The Niger that takes rise from the Congo,
The Congo,
From which the Nile,
Emanates,
And Winding through Central Africa,
And the Sides of the East,
Empties in the Mediterranean,
And the Aegean..
And I am from the Springs of Tutu,
From Asante,
And from Poku Ware,
A man keenly aware,
Like a serpent,
Having a clear vision of my environs,
And I know Gwendolyn too,
One of my Tutors,
Like Paul,
My reverend Master,
Having been close to the Tree,
And the Woods of Eden,
Having known the Jordan,
And drank from the Crystal Waters,
In its Subterranean Springs,
I have the River,
Running in my Belly,
And the Water,
Babbling in My Psyche,
And he has drunk of the Wells,
He has drunk from the DaySprings,
And he never gets Thirsty.
(C)
Fritz Ampon.
Note Title Taking From: 'Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening.'
Robert Frost.