The banana plant lies on the ground, no longer of use,
having been cut down, reluctantly, by the workers in the garden.
Children, anxiously, wait till time's up.
There's nothing in the garden,
other than a sorrowful wind
that makes the grass shiver and moan.
The traditional poets are playing now at sleeping
in the weak radiance of a setting sun
as their rhythms twist and turn on a sea of story,
having failed to plumb the depths of rationality.
A hurricane once arrived in the town of Siyu
Not only for this person nor for that it was chaos
It uprooted the baobabs but left the palm trees
The hearts were troubled.
While we're drinking tea on the verandah
watching our children
as they swing joyfully
we ought to know our rope
has frayed and worn thin:
a few more strands and we will fall.
Once, you used to push me
up higher than half a circle;
once, I used to catch you
as you almost fell.