Ancient kept the memory at my hut
But the breeze of the West blowing stronger than heat,
Vanished away the memory with hoot.
Why will they come? Is a dumb yet to speak to me?
The drums of the early are well tuned to mean,
But amendment of the present throws audience into confusion.
Yet today chanting re-echoes the voice of my forefathers,
When the wishes of men were stone, and the dances of women,
Determined the faith of my tradition.
Beat the ancient memory drums and fine-tune the title
Of my memory, that was rubbed by colour breezing my title,
Which Vanished away the memory with hoot.
My Analysis
This is a four three line stanza poem. The theme is meditation. The subject-matter revolves around the messing up of the African or local culture or tradition by the foreign or western culture.