broken bones, like pottery shards
seed their pieces on Ubangi’s
shores. but shattered
pots & bones don’t
germinate,
do they?
no
bones
and broken
pots alike are history:
where they fall, there they lie
putting the lie to the dead visions
of dead leaders still in their
dread saddles, building
pyramids with skulls
for bricks, young
blood for red
mortar
…
until
the young
shall rouse from her
somnambulism and build a new
vision for old Bangui,
young they
die
What a sad proposition/reality. This life…
Our life, but we can make a new reality…