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AMINU MAHMUD
My heart whispers, Prometheus
I have not travelled the road
to whisper into the ears
whose drum is carved with stone.
How does the locust
know the moment
to seek the corn heads?
I have not travelled the road
to whisper into your ears when
the road can't grasp the sunset hour.
How does the sky-high bird
know the bough and foliages
that hides its nest?
Needless I whisper
if the Promethean hand
can fire mirthful ants.
Needless I whisper,
through sob-filled mouth,
if words can stir the heart;
if my voice, like the gentle
stream that flows into the
river, can stir the supple heart.
Needless I whisper
if the red-flame cock
can tell the break of dawn.
II
Shall I not whisper the
tales of this land where
kings and the kings' men
can't hear the wails of mothers
or the sobs of wives each time
a son or husband dies?
Can't soothe a tear-filled
child, taking his day's only
meal from the dust bin?
Can't fend for pregnant women,
gathering dewdrops
when the tap drip of rust?
Instead they work the road to
consume the path where bridal
sisters awaited their grooms.
Instead they carry their scythe
to maul innocent sons
to harvest their poor souls.
Instead they remove knives
from scabbard
in a hourglass of life,
to drain out the content
to irrigate the killing fields,
to grow talons.
„
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