Waiting For Home

The air is stale here in the summer
A wind of mosquitoes overwhelms the stillness,
We are running from breathing because it bites
Our blood is heaving at the tips of bite mountains forming on our skins

We're really itching for a better time
A time when the land is ours and we recall the trees
When we inhale the power of the stars without running
For now we're itching for something better
For a moving air that breathes more than the wind bites
And rain that falls without arguing with the sun
When the heirs of rainmakers pick up the broken drums and mend them with dancing feet
And the dust is true
The dust is language
Convincing the skies once more
And the rain breaks out through the barrier lines
And the rain falls onto the land
And Africa reigns
And the land is true,
The land recalls itself
Recollection its people
Unrooting the weeds
Ridding the air of infectious venom
From the wind that bites
And Africa reign
For now we resist.