They will neither mind the vanquished leather; stringed, stretched,
and strapped to the heart of time. . .
Nor the bended knees of my father, as he hit her with his stick and
squeezed her spines. . .
They will neither mind the parables echoed, stories told and eulogies
rendered. . .
Nor the high pitched note rapping their ear drums, as he pluck her
veins and gyrate to his special numbers. . .
They will neither mind the king's presence; the noise of the elders
and the victorious hunters that have rented the air.
Nor the birds that have picked up the chorus
Of a battle well fought and plenitude of spoils harvested
They'll just dance to wanton abandonment
Circling the village; hither and thither
As he pull tighter and tighter
Rendering beautiful vibrations spiraling —
Cleansing mortal souls,
the bloody hands of the hunters,
and the bones of our idols. . .
Olumide Fayomi
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