In the belly of the ocean
I hear the sounds of old
Sounds of the voices untold
Voices of them that were sold
From the north to the west and the east
But never made the final feast.
In the bubbles of the ocean
I feel the movements of the feet
Movements of the dancers to the beats
Beats of the drumming from the streets
From the men of the west and the east
Who never made the final feast.
In the multitudes of the ocean
I hear the stories of our daughters and sons
Those sons captured under midday sun
In the midday battles of swords and guns
From the cities of the north to the east
Like pilgrims towards a Ramadan feast.
In the libraries of the ocean
I read tales that are beyond reason
Tales of atrocities, of human treason
Atrocities of the changing seasons
Like the west bound sun from the east
We are west bound for the feast.
In the valleys of the ocean
I see tracts of good fertile soils
Soils enriched by their sweat and toil
Sweat darkened by rage like gushing oil
That we till today from the west to the east
To prepare for ourselves a grand feast.
Tales From The Ocean's Belly - Kwadwo Oteng Owusu
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