THE HORN THIRSTS, AGAIN

No thunder
No lightening
No nimbus clouds,
Just vultures gathering
In a desolate sky

On the trek to Dadaab,
Shrubs stripped of their leaves
Carcasses of goats
Cattles and sheep
In the lower Shabelle, lie

Bakool
Withers on the vine
And the seeds from her loin
In hunger, cry
But heaven's vault remains shut

From the breasts
Where milk once richly surged,
Three months old Amina
Died of thirst
And the mother was too weak to realize her loss

The horn thirsts, again
And death and all its friends
Patiently wait

THE HORN THIRSTS, AGAIN

No thunder
No lightening
No nimbus clouds,
Just vultures gathering
In a desolate sky

On the trek to Dadaab,
Shrubs stripped of their leaves
Carcasses of goats
Cattles and sheep
In the lower Shabelle, lie

Bakool
Withers on the vine
And the seeds from her loin
In hunger, cry
But heaven's vault remains shut

From the breasts
Where milk once richly surged,
Three months old Amina
Died of thirst
And the mother was too weak to realize her loss

The horn thirsts, again
And death and all its friends
Patiently wait

NUBIAN QUEENS

This is for the off springs
Of Imani and Nandi
I see magic in every swing
Of their beguiling hips

The grandeur of the sun
Is made manifest by their brown skin
Protein dwell
In the fullness of their lips

Do they know from whence they came?
And over dynasties and kingdoms
Their mothers once reigned
And drank of king Solomon's wisdom

Tell them to ask Sheba
About Makeba
They should enquire from Timbuktu
About Askia

They are
Nubian queens,
The well that sprung
Warriors and kings

They grew
From the same evergreen tree
As Hatshepsu, Tiye
And Nefertiti

Roses, they are
Whether in the Rift Valley lows
Or in the highs
Of kilimanjaro

Whether in the fields
Of the savannah
Or the concrete streets
Of the sahara

Nubian queens, they are

NUBIAN QUEENS

This is for the off springs
Of Imani and Nandi
I see magic in every swing
Of their beguiling hips

The grandeur of the sun
Is made manifest by their brown skin
Protein dwell
In the fullness of their lips

Do they know from whence they came?
And over dynasties and kingdoms
Their mothers once reigned
And drank of king Solomon's wisdom

Tell them to ask Sheba
About Makeba
They should enquire from Timbuktu
About Askia

They are
Nubian queens,
The well that sprung
Warriors and kings

They grew
From the same evergreen tree
As Hatshepsu, Tiye
And Nefertiti

Roses, they are
Whether in the Rift Valley lows
Or in the highs
Of kilimanjaro

Whether in the fields
Of the savannah
Or the concrete streets
Of the sahara

Nubian queens, they are

BAMBOO FLUTE

Seven years young
And sold to the dream of international stardom
Though the son of a violinist
He was the property of the Maosits

Grew from the land of the Rising Sun
A thread from the fabric of Sichuan
Alone, he played some for the applause
Of the people in the mirror

Sad tunes
From bamboo flute
Melodies, a thousand years old
Reawaken by this lonesome soul

And when demons lay siege
On his sleep
He would climb to the moon
On the wings of soaring tunes

BAMBOO FLUTE

Seven years young
And sold to the dream of international stardom
Though the son of a violinist
He was the property of the Maosits

Grew from the land of the Rising Sun
A thread from the fabric of Sichuan
Alone, he played some for the applause
Of the people in the mirror

Sad tunes
From bamboo flute
Melodies, a thousand years old
Reawaken by this lonesome soul

And when demons lay siege
On his sleep
He would climb to the moon
On the wings of soaring tunes