EXILE
I
Every one is born a king,
and most people die in exile, like most kings.
—Oscar Wilde
My
thirty-first
Season
of sorrow
My
thirty-first
Season
of my sad exile
Since
I have been eating this cold bitter bread of exile
Since
I had run away
From
home
From
my kingdom by the sea
From
Somalia
From
Mighty Mouth’s cruel laughter
From
Marehan-Ogaden-Dhulbahante Afwayneland
From
dirty Darodland
From
Hutu Hawiyeland
From
Mindless Mugdi Mudug
From
Ee-door Hargayse Whoredom
Like
a latter-day coon slave
To
Canada
To
a land kinder than home
Which
I believed
Belonged
To
John F. Kennedy
When
this Mennonite missionary teacher
When
this Merlin Russell Grove
When
this beloved brother
Driven
From
his fat farm
In
Markham, Ontario
By
this Great Love
By
this Great Commission
By
this
“Go
ye therefore & preach
The
gospel
To
every creature…”
Hounded
me
In
Mahaddei Wayn
In
the Somali benighted bush
For
Heaven
By
laying down his life
Like
his Lord
For
me
For
Somalis.
EXILE11
Oh,
to be in Somalia
Now
that it is
That
time of year
Here
in Montreal
When
the marrow freezes in my bones
When
my ebon skin looks ashy white
Dried
for death
When
flu alien ailments
Blow
in
From
Hong Kong
From
bang-bang Bangcock
From
Futo-ba-eed
From
Oryx’s Fanny.
Oh,
to be home in Mogadishu
By
the Lido Bay
Where
there is
No
Wet
White
Cold
Snow
Falling
From
the heavens
Numbing
everything below.
Home
By
the Lido Beach
Where
I’d dive
Deep
Hidden
For
a spell
From
the sultry Somali sun
And
In
the calm cool depths of the Indian Ocean
Startle
Schools
of stampeding fish
And
Frolic
And
Fly
With
the flying stingrays.
Mahamud
Siad Togane
