3.
Listen. The flute plays. The flute plays
It plays for the mask of a thousand mirrors
The palms are swaying means that all is well
The bole is well is why the iroko stands
The green grass glistens on Okpatu hills
And there is no storm there on the Great River
But listen again to the wailing of the flute
For each dancer in the streets a secret spirit piper
A pointing child is never a wild waif
Something lurks there at the fingers end
And when the toad dances in bright broad noon
Spirits of evil are drumming somewhere
Christopher ! Warrior poet !
The flute plays. Listen to the flute. The flute plays
It is for the mask of a thousand mirrors
They are still calling the mask the elephant
Restrained by wild-eyed drunk acolytes
A mask of a thousand mirrors stomps the streets
Christopher ! This mask still answers the elephant call
But this mask now lives in the palace of the king
The web of mystery is wet and cold
A bulldozer sits now over the great ant-hole
With gold and guns and terror bearers
Standing over where the spiders wove
The flutes wail aloud for the true great mask
The dance of this mask is a tale of memories
A tale of women octogenarian
A tale of old men serene with suffering
A tale of thunders without a sound
A tale of the earth without an axis
Christopher ! Warrior poet !
That stomp of elephants is a phony stomp
Our world is now a pitiful weakling
It groans with the burden of an elephant corpse !
Burning Bush Continues >>>
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