Sorrowful Death

Sorrowful Death

Kneeling in solitude
Of crocheted dreams;
I’ve eared drumbeats;
The African and Western rhythms.

I’ve prayed with feet
To the spirits of music;
I’ve clasped into extinction
The leathers of my fathers
Which decorated the African beats.

In cold, dark and shrilling night
We hear the secret call
From the pot of death;
We tried to wake our fathers
From slumber to fight;
We couldn’t.

We were still loading rhythms
When sorrowful death
Clouded our habitat.

If only there was an African
In this western drum,
We sure will survive.

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