a scribe etches on stone.
the sun at her finger tips
burnishes runes on the Sahel.
in time, the winds will blow them south
feet will stampede a tapestry across
the warring lines where kin were split.
you see, the past is scrolled into eternity
where abaphansi await us all.
the ink bloody, the tales riotous
border on yesterday’s trance dance
where branded souls ululate our names –
singango tshani singango boya benkomo.
buried under the dust of scrolls aging
under ancient Alexandria’s ashes,
the phoenix rises, telegraphed in the sky.
it is sung to children, tattooed in ritual
cast in precious metals lodged in our hearts .
it is engraved in dark caves through time
like melted desire it flows to Robbers Island
where our imbongis whisper it into our digital ears
we are the sons and daughters of soothsayers
neo griots readings fortunes written in ciphers.
when our past selves read the stars,
the signs are in every groove of our skin.
we rock paintings on our bodies like protective amulets
each word a sacrament for all our muses because
our future is divined from studied pasts.