lakes of white moon milk ripple
in your dream. Supple
is your black skin, like the sacred
Modder Forest in the evening. Efua, your young
heart is like the thumping of your bare and drunken
feet, the drums’ tom-tom and the rhythmical harvest song.
Efua, in your dream the orange sun has ripened,
naked bride of the morning and stone of innocence.
The wrists of your hands are light, like the hollow
bones of birds. Like a reed in the wind — your waist.
The golden hair of corn sighs in your dream.
A river of copper water boils. The palm tree’s hands
beat the lazy wind in the shadow. You hold
your bow and arrow raised high. Efua, your winding path
is followed by the cunning eye of the tiger. But you
will overcome the beast and the dark foliage, where
the odd dreams of monkeys dangle and the wind’s cool knives hang
after slicing a soft cloud. Warm lakes
of moon milk are steaming in your dream.
Efua, in your long, long dream.