This is a contemplative poem about what Africa means to me
and what I might possibly mean to it.
Pursuit
The whispered words of a mother
to her crying child have
somehow
caught my ear,
have brought me sounds of love
and
joy amidst the worried clamor
of my peers,
oh say I speak of voter booths,
of blood soaked tears, of
Africa?
Say I speak of sun dried
fields,
of absent rains, of the shadow
of the day,
I who’ve spent my days in
misery,
in pursuit of Africa?
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