Westgate

Far off, in the eastern sky
there flies a ranging vulture;
as a shadow in the rising sun.

It is called across the desert
and its song is wind and woe.

As its somber feathers flutter
lifted on the lofty airs,
tortured currents sweep it higher,
bear it on its carrion's call.

In the east, the dying, calling,
sing the song of all the damned.
On the west the rain is falling,
falling for the words we lost.

The crows that caw after the dead
come flying home with sad, sad news.
One more tongue has stopped its wagging,
one more breath has lost its warmth.

Let the foreign maggots have their go
but save his bones for Ghanaland.
Here the sands shall be his pillow
and the rocks shall be his bed.