Out of the depths, throbs.
Flutes make the flutists, and pachyderms
Skin our ancestral drums.
A panther-leap and gazelle-sway dance
Caress our restless feet.
Our young-and-old hearts palpitate
With the eloquence of incensed orators.
Frenzy falls like weeping rain upon us,
Charming our hearts with the melody of
Esoteric chants.
The orange light yonder shines on the drums
And on the stiffened biceps of the drummers,
And hastens messages onto mountains and valleys.
It’s evening on the African market.
Night, and flickers are spotted from
Burning heaths upon which warriors of old dance
And beckon on departed souls
To celebrate the new age of the jungle.
The prayer man, hoarse-voiced,
Condemn all damnations and
Return our wishes to the fragments of
Isolated cultures.
Around a pregnant calabash, this night,
Cowries, beads and amulets . . .
Yellow-fire glints —solemn witnesses—
Testify to the brio of the drums,
The arrogance of the ceremony,
And the scent of the jungle.