Africa Screams

This cradle of man, this voracious climbing vine,

Done-up like a salad bowl, posing as a mine,

We don’t sing but complain melodiously;

Never given anything we now expect for free.

Sun-treader comb your morning hair, sweep private roads in anger;

What of other highways? Go tell King Mwanga

The Royal House is empty, the servants all abroad,

Scattered to earth’s corners, a tuneless monochord,

Their hearts a lute for strumming, diseased the ebb and flow,

Sad cypress; unfulfilled watercress – what’s to know?