A poem dedicated to African Grave diggings
Lakai Saadiq III
Unto our grand masters of life.
Architects of doorways patching theirs in parallel existences between now and then,
As guardians of the morgues and pedagogues of shovel.
Conductors of misty fogs,
building the dead palaces of marble.
Summoning the unseen wandering flocks considered ennoble,
with a mare hymn rattling from afar and a beam of a dying candle.
In silence they sit there, Listening.
Awaiting the cries of a giant elephant soon to be set aloof.
On a flight that only them have fled
A flight tearing a nation into tears, quaking the grounds.
They sit there awaiting.
Lamenting on a pulse optic audio
. Oceanic conversations connected by pulse.
A vocal boomerang on walls of creators. In recitals they speak…
“We ought to dig for man.
Our Oath is of loyalty.
Once we were Kings, later imprisoned to build graves.
Chisel for the dead, a home as slaves.
Once we wore silk garments embroidered in gold,
Now, these rags, hold together dreams of out thousands cemented by bare hands.
These rags, threaded with wisdom and secrets of the night.”
“For a life, only subjective to the living.
Reason was never our treason.
Matter shall matter more,
When Mother Earth floods her surface with corps.”
“We are receptive only to what’s left.
Just like Hyenas,
Masters of shovels.”