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The post below was written, with sadness, a year ago. I shared it within the project and with family, but never put it on line.
Now, at the end of February , as we, and everyone else here on the west side of the Congo River, are wondering what the disintegration in eastern DR Congo means and what is coming: War? Social breakdown?
A new African colonialism? You did not write this poem, but perhaps you felt it; your words, whistles, trills reached for it. Of all the parrots, your voice insisted most. There are now ; with you there were None have names, but perhaps you did.
All were seized from the trade, Pulled from palm-rachis carrying cases, off of motorbikes, pulled from the hold of a plane, But not you. You were wrenched as a nestling from a tree hole; you were fed by human hands, under One face, then another face, then another. Perhaps a child gave you a name; perhaps that child brought you food, laughed, Was family. Now here, you are pushed, into a flight cage.
In the cage, wild birds make broken flights, wait for their wings to grow again, for the wire-cage door to open. You sit on the ground, others fly over you; You whistle, trill, make words to the air; Never machete-hacked, your wings are whole, but you never flew; You never saw a parent push off from the nest, Push the air, Again and again, over the forest.