Scribbles

Winds may manage to erase our prints off the belly of the earth, Smiles we lit on faces of people may go off, Life may even pretend to have not birthed us, Dreams we molded to create better futures may be treated as trash, Then, when death has had devoured our lives. But now is the time, Now is the time to inscribe our names, Deep in the skin of the sky, Tattooing them so thickly that stars should envy, So that even when we pass, Those alive then may know that we too were here. Time and seasons will soon forget us, Even flowers in our gardens without us will go on, Friends and acquaintances we made alone will leave us to sleep, Gold and silver in our youth we picked will have new masters, Then, when death has had harvested our lives. But now is the time, Now is the time to inscribe our names, Deep in the skin of the sky, Tattooing them so thickly that stars should envy, So that even when we pass, Those alive then may know that we too...

 If the sky was a blanket,  Then it could be one held invisibly,   Fastened tightly in midair,  And Earth would be the bed,   On which witty dreamers lay,  Dancing with beautiful shadows,  Pacing to and fro the ends of the world,  In close stance shaking,   Wriggling their wine-bottled waists,  To tunes of old, tunes of ancient Egypt,  To rhythms of first day Africa,   Before music was molested and lost its purity,  To Gypsy melodies,   When music still had its head proudly swung,   Left and right with no reservations.  If the sky was a blanket,  And Earth, the bed on which dreamers slept,  Life would certainly be a massive dream dreamt by all,  It would be nothing existent,  But merely a masterpiece,   A Mona Lisa of sleeping minds,  Just a beautiful thought. Gerry Sikazwe

If the sky was a blanket then it could be one held invisibly, fastened tightly in thin air, And Earth would be the bed, on which dreamers lay, Dancing with beautiful shadows, Pacing to and fro the ends of the world,  In close stance shaking, wriggling their wine-bottled waists, To tunes of old, tunes of ancient Egypt, Rhythms of first day Africa, tunes of old. If the sky was a blanket, And earth, the bed on which dreamers slept, Life would be a massive dream dreamt by all, It would be nothing real, But a masterpiece, a Mona Lisa of sleeping minds.

Wriggle thy waist, Writhe thy entire body, For all men to watch, Till all sleep;  Dreaming your perfect form. By the sways of your dark waist, Amuse the lonely gods in the sky, Appease the ancestors below, Save them from their eternal boredom. Woman of black earth dance, Entertain us all.