Lakai Saadiq III
Tears of the sun,
Sons of mountain queens.
Astounding spirits bred on warfare,
As light bearers,
with purposeful meanings carried in their names.
Once we were young gods,
A legion of brave-hearted men,
Burying our stars on the ground by rise and summoning chants by noon to set alight their fires to the universe.
Allowing their shadows to take giant steps,
Once we were a civilized nation,
Alpha fathers feathering the wings of our offsprings.
Intrinsic to our dreams by designed innovations before God.
Our fathers, our pedagogues.
Our strangers, our tunnels to the morgues.
Before we were slaves of a savage race,
tamed by a dead clock to change consistency with the strength of our shoulders,
famine feeding on our souls, breeding a generation of bloated tummies.
Once we were kings, anointed with oils milked off breasts of bumbles bees.
Before our meals where cow dung crumblings.
Before we could soak our feet on the ground,
hands up to folding clouds,
lynching milking lanes in search of heavens.
Our tongues were once a fleeting tool, paving our way across children of night,
Guardians of shadows with Psalms engraved on their skin,
Blueprinters of the sky with silent hymns echoing in between ear drums and blinks.
Lingers only sketches of tomorrow,
Remaining images ambled into a mosaic mirage of sorrow.
The Harold speaks of good news.
From afar, lies imprints to be adhered to if only we were listening to the ground.
Our memories, like autumn leaves.
Our memories, falling from the trees.