O ink of womb-warm earth,rising from the calabash of origin,swirling through baobab root from griot tongue—you are not written,you are remembered. Praise the red soil that stains the feet of wanderers,the black rock that keeps the forgotten path,the wind that...

Midsummer season on my wintry lips,these modern symptoms from antiquated sorrows.The sunlight of acceptance,the midnight of isolation.Youthful blushes and the wrinkles of experience,I have the free will to question my fate.This wealth of imagination,and the poverty of my reality.The...