As they search, my future runs.
What they want, I do not have
but things they need, our own blood.
Why, why, why?!
Never again shall I see the plain,
the wives, the kids, the birds you name.
The land is gone, our doom reforms.
Colour doesn't matter; their shameful blunder.
Our stories so long ago told
by the aging fathers of old.
The sound of the whip,
we never forgive.
We lived righteously in our created glory.
The sins of the whitewashed men
became our paths to nature's pen.
But of the scars we bare,
I gladly lay them down.
The house on water calls for the Ghanaian drum beat.
The Zulus retreat so the battle is lost,
yet there's light for the lost souls,
the ones who made us known,
our paths and the search for hope.
The Path - Juanita Tsikata
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