The celebration is now ended but the echoes are all around whirling like a harmattan...
The celebration is now ended but the echoes are all around whirling like a harmattan...
The celebration is now ended but the echoes are all around whirling like a harmattan whirlwind throwing dust around and cover faces and feet grope.
The celebration is now ended the drums lay quiet, silent, waiting. And the dancers disperse , walking with feet that have known many dances waiting for the next;walking with their hearts climbing up their feet to their places and the palmwine descending from their heads to settle in their bellies and their bodies turn cold. For the spirit of the dance has left their and their faces become naked.
But the child font is now lying on laps feeding from measureless breasts of the back singing green lullabys which tingle our heads. And we learn to sing half familiar half strange songs.
we learn to dance to half familiar half strange rhythms fashioned in dreams as the child font lies sleeping with breasts in his mouth.
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