POETRY

wordings of the soul

Our Gods Travelled And Never Returned By Tydale Abigail

POSTED 05/04/2018 12:05
1977 Reads Our Gods Travelled And Never Returned By Tydale Abigail, Poetry on Tushstories
The sun is gone
And the moon has come,
But darkness still is never done.
My neck is tall
And my eyes really broad,
Watching the searing little stars
On the valley that sinks from the mountain in my heart.

I am bored and soaked in a thousand baths of expectations.
My wandering mind settles almost every moment
On the troubled discourse from my country side,
Seeking soothing songs that the gods once sang in the seasons of the sun.

I have travelled through the testaments and theatres of the never dying bamboo sticks,
Greeting every cricket and hummingbird with unknown familiar voices,
And watching every movement of their cosmetic bodies
Having coverings like the skins of the deities I hope to meet.

I have but only a melody from the flute of the groits.
Many times, I have also tried to invoke the peaceful anger of Sango
So he can light my way even in the dark moon light that dots my journey.
But I can neither receive no comfort from the beautiful bronze barons that my grandfather once sacrificed his yams to.
I long to see their smiles that are brilliant in the hacked black horizon
Because I know that they too, have a life.

While I will walk with weak strength across this river;
And even when I have incurred shredded flesh from the friendly trees in the forest;
I feel not one of the sacred hands will pat my head.

I have heard that soap stones once washed away the errors of my people.
Carved woods also gave life to the dead hopes in my native land.
Tree tops were better homes than the comfort of woven mattresses.
And the rushing spring from the hill tops often read names and fortunes for the future
Before my father gave birth to me.

I thought those days were found in the memories of yesterday.
I felt that the luck from the grave side was nowadays buried in the grave.
I even hoped that the protection from the curses of the wicked were skeletons in the unknown burial places of our lost divinity.
The sky has been silent in all of these,
And the moon has never been brighter too.
I am journeying still to the ruins of our ancestral patriots.

I saw the tears in their eyes when I closed mine.
Their screams were saintly silent until my ears stooped to listen.
From their voices, I could readily know their names.
They told me the story of how they fought bravely.
They had dreams that their weapons will liberate our souls from uncoloured aliens,
And set them upon our thrones forever.

Alas! One man arose and despised them bitterly.
With his counterparts, they abused their immunities for claiming to save our lives.
They preached out all their interests from the fertile hearts of my native people,
And broke their doors with fervent testimonies of rightful reasoning.
They sanctioned the pride of our sacred places
And lay bare the pillars of local magic.

If I will arrive in peace at the sanctuary most abhorred,
I will tell the bones of Amadioha to rekindle the might in our leaders spirits.
To the withering goddesses,
I will cry that they teach our youths the ability to discard unprofitable laziness.
I will show them the disgusting pictures of our public places management,
And the inefficiency in the glory of my country's corruption.

Before the pillars that once held the buildings of my fatherland,
I will weep.
My tears will wash away the disappointment they have in us.
And my sweats will stamp an allegiance for their intervention.
For they once lived amongst us,
But they travelled far away from our backyards.
Until this day,
My anxious spirit waits
For the time the gods of Africa shall return.

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Tydale Abigail

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