My mother, I swallow the resin from the old trees
And it feels good flowing in my veins.

It is the destiny of my birth
Amongst ballads chanted round a bonfire.
You know how the sorrow is always new.
You know that, don’t you, mother?

Do you know it or not?
The burning mystery in the eyes of a man
You encountered one day on your way
As a barefoot young woman.

Do you know this or not, mother?
The resin from the old trees the spirits planted
Their virgin roots being salted by dead men’s curses,
And huge moons dying of anxiety,
The skins of the furious drums,
And giving the palm leaves
The incandescent shine of naked blades.

It is the taste of the spell, Mother,
Of our disenchanted ancestral enchantments
The ingenuous exorcism of your old wives´ tales
The marvellous melody of your songs
And the secret of your body when it is possessed
But of maternal blood inviolable Where my destiny was born.

In
The space of your black woman’s tomb,
Do you or don’t you know the truth.
Now, do you know this or not,
My mother?

 

Note: This poem comes from the website of Jason Preator Writing Finger

 

Advertisements