Thursday, 4 June 2015


A volt of vultures on top my hut 
sharpening their beaks
On a tombstone--
Their voice reverberate
In the darkest cave
Inviting whispers from nsamanpom

The broken gong-gong hangs
On the roof of browned hopes---
The crier took refuge in the silent burrows

The talking drums tore
Singing the forbidding gong-gong song
The drummer traced the crier's trails

The mansion stole my children
The path to the mansion widened into
The gate of a promised paradise
The path to my hut narrowed
Into the anus that trumpets flatulence of hell

My hut is an island in a sea of ants
Singing sanctimonious chants
to summon drought---

My breath ring noises from  a strife
Between life and his foremost foe
Yesterday's toils and torments left in the
Flames of wasted tongues

Dark days approach my hut with weapons
To grant a wish I never wished
The cracks on the wall shall be my epitaph
When the leftover of vultures become the feast for ants

June 3, 2015
©Sarpong Kumankoma

No comments:

Post a Comment