In the enclaves of ancestors: A poem 

Wade at the banks, at the flanks of the earth 

Feel my feet rid of all evil Man’s sticky dirt 

There’s fire-wind in my womb for an infant’s birth 

in a surrealistic, nostalgic and fantastic firth 

I can weep in this madness; wings fly out   

span the orbs of my aura in reality’s rout 

I am camouflaged from the world all about 

And feel visions drown me loud as a shout 

Valleys and mountains gather around me like students 

at the assembly of gods armed with sharpened tridents 

At my beck and call are the universe’s lights 

There seems colour even in the black and whites 

I am running up to paradise’s wishing well 

The source of the fountain has me in a spell 

I feel naked in the silence of a dormant bell 

But its sounds ring through the enclaves where my ancestors dwell