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deep inside me, i couldn't forget what i went though and all the unforeseen moments of my life. i looked at what i have today and how the people back home are suffering. i couldn't bear it, my eyes started to pour some drop of tears and my hands started to write in my cell phone.

Back Home

Back Home

                                                By Bobo Kalenga

 

I remember you!

Land of my ancestors,

In the heart of that mother land

Who can’t express

What she really feels,

Yellowish soils and Green trees

Where mobile libraries

Share their wisdoms.

 

I remember back home,

My childhood and

Those children of the land,

Strong and Valliant

Who used to dive into

That dirty river without a word;

Knowing that swimming

Was their only desire

When stars in space don’t burn up

The ground with fire.

 

I remember the rainy seasons,

Where the men and women

Would be outside their houses

Waiting for the rain to fall

Like Christians wait

For the Son of God to come;

Hoping to have good times

After the rain.

 

I remember back home,

And a family that used to eat as many times

They wanted a day,

When food could be thrown in the garbage,

And dogs not caring about the bones.

I remember back home,

 

I remember back home

And the lightning upon the land

That has brought total silence,

And total darkness while the coldness

Becomes the supreme ruler of the town,

When the sound of guns become the only music.

I remember back home,

 

 

I remember green trees becoming yellow;

Showing how winter has conquered the heart

Of black Africa turning soft heart into hard ones

And the children’s tears into ice that cannot be swallowed.

Mountains colliding together like pigeons migrating

To the south hoping that they will keep their rhythms and melodies

While the clouds singing their national songs

 

I remember nights without light,

And days without foods.

I remember that old widow who,

Every night shares her tea

With her grand children,

Those arrogant men full of money

Begging water from orphans

Sleeping on the street,

And that family who,

Used to throw foods in the garbage,

Sharing a piece of fish and giving

Its bones to the dog.

 

I remember back home,

And the familial whole night prayers,

Days and nights of fasting

Hoping that our rivers of tears will dry up.

Still hoping, hoping that we’ll see the light again.

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Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.

Aristotle (384 BC-322 BC) Greek philosopher.

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