We hated here and now,
we wasted space for some gold rush.
If told to trade we would for the emptiness
that was born of the earth's touch.
We created here and now
and never was a sound so loosely sung,
heard across the latitudes of whatever laid in our way.
Meanwhile beneath those bridges, through rustling leaves,
the spider and his stories weave.
Tales grow as tall as a warrior's bloodline,
as tight knit as the women's patterns.
Our children have been to Ananse's grave
surprised to find the prince of cunning so depraved.
"Take the words off our hearts," they said.
Well today even those words are dead.
"Ananse's Grave" is part two of our four-part series of poems on Ananse stories. Previous installments can be found in our archives. Check back next week for the next installment.