I danced through the landscape that made thee,
Listened to the lyrics that composed you.
You’re a myth, a composition of great but, you are not Alexandra.
You’re the mother to Zik. Belly to Mandela and home to Kofi known as Annan.
No, your heroes are not all dead
But rising beyond their black skin to rule the world outside the thorns – this dead-end.
Let me know your thoughts about this poem. Thanks for reading.