Clutching at this eleventh hour
Cries becloud the confused, ailing air;
Genuflections are common without songs of praise,
The tongue having been glued to the palate . . . .

Dis-virgining verdant forests’ footpaths,
The evenings aglow with billowing tongues of
Fire shimmering at the foot of the
Hombori.

Refugees . . .
Mere husks of withered grains,
Rain-flushed, threshed by the photosynthesis of the
Eclipsing moon, after a rape by native thunder which
For days roared until the thresholds, footpaths and playgrounds
Hoisted banners of eloquent grief on
Posts of gaunt bamboos.