Gong of Praise


It hits with a rhythm

That is heard and understood

By the heart

Transmitted from the brain

The veins do their work

And the adrenaline gets the body to work


It is played by the hands of hard-work

From the heated soil

Tilled with sweat streaming down their backs

like water from a tap

It is of those who do the work

The body of the gong

Smell of the location of its birth

It is of soil

It is of toil

It is of motherland

And it is of Africa


The occupants listen

And raise their heads

Looking above the sky

Their faces tell of who lives beyond


They sway in motion at first

But, the heart gives

A sudden rhythm

that comes from the heated earth


In remembrance of time past

They sing the song of Zion

“.. and there we wept when we remembered Zion”

the memories all coming back and the tears of Negro Spirituals origin


They understand,

they realise

And then comes the praise

And the rejoicing


The movement of feet

And hands,

the shouts of mixed traditions

Mixed languages and mixed tongues

Are all part of the rhythm

that make up the Gong of African Praises to God






Your royal-green thought

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