HOME SIGNS

HOME SIGNS

 Thunderstorms Strike out in splitting 

The hailstones of the initial 

Lightening gives ways 

To the agents of the will-wall. 

A strike of the sticks 

On the ancient drums, 

The skin of the tiger made

 Drum dreams to glow. 

It's eye as a fired piercer 

Canny in daggering. 


The friction on its nails, 

A strike drips drops of blood 

Stream to be a river 

Flows the head to the toes 

In a pang of a moment. 

 This serves me with a cap 

A cup of beer at the bush. 

In a robe of deer skin 

Hangs on a like king's shoulder. 

 The wine is preferred 

The gourd is emptied. 

In my home land, 

 At the ancient days 

Never lack of dammed wine 

In present of a dated guns. 

At the sides of a foundries knives 

And cutlasses. 

It was a preferred to the blood 

Of the holiest hunters. 


 The land goes to and from of 

The worshippers in days. 

The spirit of lands and 

Creating hush curses. 

The evils and devils amongst. 

The judgements and compensations, 

At a stance of a constant. 

The beers are bedeviled, 

The Virginia palm wine 

Of the ancient sources. 

The new faces would be 

Turned to the old cages. 

Never escape the pray 

Of the free and caged tigers.

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