Your Mother My King

To he who rules me To he who grooms me The one who steers me Me his son The son of the Rivers, the valleys, the glens Of Africa My mother. I who drinks from her fair veins Eats of her breast and sleeps of Her calls Calls from her pores cooling me: I who smiles from her suns And sobers of her moon I find paths of her eyes And wisdom of her gate ways Drums and groans Cries and moans Bites and beatings Songs and sorrows From greed, greens and greetings, A woman’s pride is her hair A mother’s jewels is her breast Her waist is her identity Her womb her sword soldiers: Protectors’ projectors: All poisons, gladly and eagerly Destroyed Cut off, all of it nothings Pull off, all of it meaningless, Stripped off. He li-lies Kings queens princes dancing Pot naked and it naked It shines clattering for her own blood. Bling-bling blinding All who see naked, Your mother, My queen black Of her sons’ greens of greed, Stripped off Cut off To nothing but shame, pain and neglect. I present to you your mother my king!