Like a sculptor chipping away at bits of wood,
Time chisels away bits of their memory
It strips away lyrics of the song of the women of my land
Leaving only a fading tune echoing the song,
they sang in the forlorn fields about their lives;
songs of how they ploughed the terrain of their mindscape;
for memories of lyrics lost in the vast void of time in those days when a song beheld their lives;
when servitude cuffed the ankles of their soul,
and dereliction decapitated the epic of their lives.
With a song, they sponged off their anguish,
to behold their collective pain,
to celebrate their gains,
give lyrics to the tune of their lives,
cheat the tyranny of time,
and commune with the yet unborn
to give meaning to an epoch lost in antiquity,
Yet time strips the lyrics and scars the tune,
leaving a dying song
Dead!
Like the women who died long ago,
Leaving the song to tell the story of their lives
Today the tune roams the forlorn fields
Like their souls looking for lyrics
To tell the tale of the servitude
Of the women my land
Who ploughed their soil and soul
For a sing to sing the story of their lives
The song of the women of my land
left in the memory of the wind.
Now feeding the verses of poets, it echoes in fields
Wriggling in rhythms and melodies,
Hollering in distant tunes
In places Far aField From the Forlorn Fields,
where the song of their lives died.
The stuttering lips of my pen
And the screeching voice of my nib
try to sing the song of the women of my land
In verses Far From the theatre of toil
where they left a Song that now roams the land
stripped of lyrics like a scorned ghost.
The tune tuning the tenor of my verse,
is all that remains of the song of the women of my land
Who labored and died leaving a dying song:
The dirge of their lives!
Explanation:
these should be the lyrics hopefully
lmk if this helped
