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.