“A father’s faith, is the, song of his son!”
He’d tell, to me, ad hominem
“Black Christ…”, he avowed, with conviction
“…Was African, not from, Bethlehem!”
An old banjo, was all, he had
Ever-mended, tuned, o’er, endless years
“Present ain’t, as much, as the past, was bad”
It redeemed him, of his, inbred fears!
With its, resonance, our souls, dissolved
In that ethos, lost to, servitude
While, our skins endured, music evolved
At the atelier, of, black solitude!
Still bind me, to his dream, five strings
He lives, in me, like his, lasting reggae
Never forgets heart, the psalm, soul sings
Lest A, Thousand Years, Be Lost Away … !
© 2021 Vikas Chandra