To my Ancestors

my silence salutes the tall Dreams

of the Dead who withdrew from here
to roam over fine mountains and
frighten hawks reshaping my dreams

sometime the sound and throbs of their breath
is a rage of blood in eons of anger with stones and axes
at times they come as Fumes of Smoke
on a Dark Noon to take me across rivers of Solitude

but I sometimes wonder if while tip-toeing

in the fog of foreign suits we have not lost sight

of the ancestors' humorous laughs

at the steps we place in the quicksand 

and call ourselves special names

sometimes I stroll around the roundabout of my memory
when carving affections for my dead soul
in unforgettable words like a master-butcher

who picks up the axe and dismembers parts of goat-meat

that tastes so good and says, tonight there will be another party
with champagnes in place of palm wine

I have grown sick of songs of sorrow
I want to cross the rivers of solitude
sing new songs of joy to celebrate the past and present
and sing and dance in gratitude for life at Home

but will my ancestors be accustomed to forgiving me
every day for the loss of my Soul
the Soul lost in the fog of foreign suits