Ode to Patrice

On a starless and sightless night,

Still and dark- not one drop of light-

A moon draped in garb, funereal-dark,

Mourned the doom of a dwindling spark,

As mortal drones of eye- soulless and stern

Broke the breath of our Nation’s truest son.

All giant mandibles, snapping and snarling;

A great engine, fuelled by greed so startling,

Pummelled its great metal feet into our land,

Smiting a swelling will which made its stand:

But then rose our Lion, to roar the gates shut.

Interred or interned, his name foiled,

Schemes of cogwheels by profit soiled:

And so begun a game, that marked his end;

On squares of black and white- where hands

Unseen- ebony and white, moved with malice,

To checkmate the voice, which cracked the sky;

But their pawns were no match- for Patrice.

His name is the drum that roused the ground

His feet trod. His faith in our hope never failing,

Our hope in his faith never flinching:

From all the winds of our great Nation,

Our children perched their notions

               In his firm fiery eyes;

For his voice was their voice.

And his words their dreams.

With pellets of their copper death in his head

His life he gave to the dignity of our children.

His lifeless shell, hacked to parts by drones,

Was ravened by acid in the dark of a forest,

To bury his name and mute their shame:

         But Lumumba was no mortal man,

         To fall by the greed of greasy men.

He was our dreams and hopes,

Clothed in flesh and bones;

Glowing like the rising sun in our hearts,

Guiding as the patient moon in our eyes.

On a dark forest night, an African martyr fell.

On a bright forest morning his legend woke.