Your Mother My King

To he who rules me

To he who grooms me

The one who steers me

Me his son


The son of the

Rivers, the valleys, the glens

Of Africa

My mother.


I who drinks from her fair veins

Eats of her breast and sleeps of

Her calls

Calls from her pores cooling me:


I who smiles from her suns

And sobers of her moon

I find paths of her eyes

And wisdom of her gate ways


Drums and groans

Cries and moans

Bites and beatings

Songs and sorrows

From greed, greens and greetings,


A woman’s pride is her hair

A mother’s jewels is her breast

Her waist is her identity

Her womb her sword soldiers:

Protectors’ projectors:


All poisons, gladly and eagerly


Cut off, all of it nothings

Pull off, all of it meaningless,

Stripped off.


He li-lies

Kings queens princes dancing

Pot naked and it naked

It shines clattering for her own blood.

Bling-bling blinding

All who see naked,

Your mother,

My queen black


Of her sons’ greens of greed,

Stripped off

Cut off

To nothing but shame, pain and neglect.

I present to you your mother my king!


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