A sonnet on the golden age of Timbuktu and the mystical Great Mosque of Djenné.
The Great Mosque rises from the river mud,
A sun-baked temple built by faithful hands,
Where ancient scholars wrote in ink and blood,
To save the wisdom of the desert sands.
The Niger curves like silver through the heat,
Past Timbuktu where gold and salt were wed,
And griots sing of kings on every street,
To keep the spirit of the empire fed.
Though dunes may shift and thirsty winds may howl,
The kora’s string still tells a story true,
Beneath the watchful eye of desert owl,
And skies of deep and disappearing blue.
Oh, land of Mansa Musa’s golden dream,
Still flowing like the spirit of the stream.
No comments:
Post a Comment