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 speaks Swahili into this poet’s ear.
You are penned in scarification lines,
across elder brows where wisdom rests,
etched in drums that do not forget,
even when silence thickens.
Praise the storytellers in open-air markets,
the women pounding millet and memory into rhythm,
the child dancing beneath the rain’s first syllable.
You sing the continent in lines curved like cow horns,
in clicks and ululations, in call and response,
in the hush of dusk as cattle return home.
Praise an ink born of fire—
it burns scrolls of sand and bone,
etching what the stars know
but never confess.
You are ink of absence and return,
of exile and embrace,
of mapless longing and rooted breath.
O ink that walks barefoot through time,
carrying ancestors in every drop—
I praise you with a trembling hand,
with parchment skin,
with my listening soul.
This is vivid and picturesque! Well done! “)
I absolutely love this, S!
Fucking hell… I’m mesmerized….
Beautifully penned, LDF. Love the vibe of this write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian