To my Ancestors

my silence
salutes the tall Dreams of the Dead
who withdrew from here
to roam over fine mountains and
frighten hawks reshaping my dreams

sometime the sound and throbs of their breath
is a rage of blood in eons of anger with stones and axes

at times they come as Fumes of Smoke
on a Dark Noon to take me across rivers of Solitude

but
I sometimes wonder if
while tip-toeing in the fog of foreign suits
we have not lost sight of the ancestors' humorous
laughs at the steps we place in the quicksand
and call ourselves special names

sometimes I stroll
around the roundabout of my memory
when carving affections for my dead soul
in unforgettable words
like a master-butcher who picks-up the axe and
dismembers parts of goat-meat that tastes so good
and says, tonight there will be another party
with champagnes in place of palm wine

I have grown sick of songs of sorrow
I want to cross the rivers of solitude
sing new songs of joy
celebrate the past and present
and sing and dance in gratitude for life at Home

but
will my ancestors be accustomed to forgiving me
every day for the loss of my Soul
the Soul lost in the fog of foreign suits