Like an orange in the hand of a hungry boy, open your heart, turn your eyes inside out, pour out their contents on a canvass. This is the first draft. I hope you primed the surface? Next, lend your eyes & ears to the elements- the wind, Atlantic, Saharan...; plains and mountains and hills with hunched backs; crisp rivers and waterfalls that pronounce your name; moon as constant as the sun of dry seasons; whispering trees that gossip you to bright coloured butterflies hovering the waters above your head, searching for answers in your dark and lovely afro, your hair... I can go on and on and on, but the list is as endless as the ends of the earth, where the sky arcs into illusionary waters... If your poem becomes shapeless and naked, wear her a dress. You can choose Ankara, Adire, Kampala... Good! Africa is now wearing the sun on her face. But this is not the end. Just a means.
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