"a language employed to hire those dispersed and robbed of tongues as though their Mother's speaks in voids. to myself, She is the tree of thought, the fruits of words spoken echoing inside every painful groin. an abyss of many a men, this production line of everything diverse oddly cultivates inversely with one loin. as though its the white man's soil. but really, all the trees in the farm are of Her children's toils. the levers of playground exploits. beams from truncated trunks kilned inside the pivot of a see saw; a pyramid She deploys. using the friction of water to streamline sound as eager loggers seek out the planter of what enslavement truly means to boys. curious is to their george. a child king?! a mere translation of what a nomad can't seed. one name for fowls. studious herders without a flock, taking bows. faint paintings of people who refuse to openly accept the conquered conscious of weak grounds. forced to mirror everything outdoor yet fear the night so force it light as though it fears a dawn. one drops. they pose fear as a place where darkness must appear in order for the sequence of repetitive ambiguity to gain form. i write. molding the hole where the roots take the lead in venturing into earth, as leaves fold. yes. dirt still mocks the weak imitation of a hard working plant. its ceiling reflected from the foundation up. moving as far as the tip of its branch. water collected to reach highest heights. further than a cloud doubting its weight on nine so number ten bites. a tree letting air digest how powerful one can be, once given three parts to divide. let that snow melt. mitishamba is a language of belts. my green cultivation is done on Her water's bed. liquid congregating to reach the furthest distance on one leg. thought defined as emotions pegged. a turtle without a shell. bravery encased. the base of my protective sword curved out of Her tongue."
mitishamba ~ mdomo mmoja ni mtofaa, tatu, ulimi wa duara.
"air rests on green"