Mourning My Death

Who mourns my death?

I know a few does

Those from my old generation

Those I brought up my own way

Not the ways of the white

Those I cultured with my rich traditions

And have embossed my values

On their hearts and minds

Yes! They cherish me

But when I started drifting from their hands

Little could they do

 To rescue me

From the claws of this senseless demon called civilization

For they were handicapped

By dilemma of a lost generation

I am battered by this new found love of yours

A love that reduces my importance to nothingness

Making me bleed from my bowels

For this new generation claims

I am outmoded

So they treat me with least respect

And when I try to put them right

They take offence

Oh! civilization has stolen my children

Making them second class humans

So they forget their real root

Upholding morals with no value

Technology has stolen my bond of unity

Threatening my substance and sustenance

And migration has rendered my home empty

Economic hardships have caused my people,

My own people, to trade their conscience

My earth has not lost its fruitfulness entirely

You can still cultivate me

Like your forefathers did

They did preserve me, yes they did

Your new found way of learning

Is not any better than mine

I taught your fathers and mothers unity

But this book teaches you separation

I taught your fathers and mothers how to reason

But this reasons for you

So you speak its mind and not your own

You accused me of not been dynamic

You claimed I am backward

You said I condoned barbarism

You said I have monopoly over my library

Well I can't argue with you

Much over that

But if you really love me,

Why don't you modify me

 to suit your changing needs

When I gathered your fathers and mothers

Around log-fires each night

I speak my rich language

Adorned with proverbs

I weave tales long preserved deep in my memory

Where neither moth nor humidity could destroy it

Unlike your books that rot away like carcass

I entertained them with my rich art of story-telling

So they identify with things I taught them

Not the remote ones you are made to read

I still have little life left

If you can save me

I will be your love

And not sing my dirge

For mourners to come

From East and West, North and South

But until you make me to live again,

I mourn my death.