Howl of the Star-Seers

I saw the best minds of the Bandiagara cliffs and Niger’s winding veins,
star-drunk visionaries of Amma’s breath, who danced with Nommo’s ghost-fins
under Sirius’s white-hot gaze, who carved masks for Sigi Tolo’s sixty-year waltz,
who fished the river’s pulse with nets woven from Pleiades’ light,
who burned their souls in millet fields and bamboo boats, chanting to Orion’s belt,
Dogon and Bozo, cliff-dwellers and river-masters,
screaming their truths to the sky’s unblinking eyes!

Who perched on Bandiagara’s stone spine, Dogon seers with eyes like telescopes,
seeing Po Tolo, the heavy dwarf, spin its silent orbit, unseen by mortal glass,
who whispered to Nommo, amphibious gods from Sirius’s womb,
their voices cracking in the dry-season wind, “We are your children, star-born!”
who carved Kanaga masks, wood splintering under ancestral knives,
each curve a map of Orion’s hunt, each notch a prayer for rain,
who danced the Sigui, feet pounding earth till the cliffs sang back,
sixty years of starlight stitched into their bones,
who saw Amma’s egg crack open, spilling galaxies on Mali’s dust!

Who paddled the Niger’s black mirror, Bozo fishers, lords of the flood,
steering by Ursa’s claw, Polaris pinned above Djenné’s mud mosques,
who sang to river spirits, their nets heavy with catfish and star-shine,
who called the Pleiades their sisters, guiding the flood’s rise,
who built bamboo houses, bɔ-so, floating on the Niger’s whim,
their dreams drifting to Mopti’s markets, where stars barter with dawn,
who knew the river’s bends by Cassiopeia’s tilt,
each ripple a verse in the Mande’s unwritten hymn!

Who stood between cliff and current, Dogon and Bozo, bound by Mande blood,
yet split by stone and water, one gazing up, one gliding down,
who traded millet for fish, masks for nets, myths for silence,
who shared the Ghana Empire’s ghost, its gold dust still in their veins,
who fought the desert’s creep, the Sahel’s thirst, the jihad’s sword,
yet kept their stars—Sigi Tolo, Po Tolo, the river’s unnamed sparks—
who laughed at telescopes, saying, “Our eyes were first, our hearts saw farther!”

Moloch! Moloch! Sandstorm of forgetting! Moloch whose teeth grind myths to dust!
Moloch whose mosques and missions drown the Nommo’s song!
Moloch whose anthropologists scribble lies, calling stars “savage dreams”!
Moloch whose telescopes steal Sirius’s secrets, claiming them for Paris!
Moloch whose dams choke the Niger, dimming the Bozo’s star-paths!
Moloch whose tourists buy Dogon masks, blind to Amma’s pulse!
Moloch whose history books erase the Ghana Empire’s sky-maps!

I’m with you, Dogon, in your cliff caves where Sirius whispers still,
where the hogon’s voice trembles, naming Emme Ya Tolo, the third star unseen,
I’m with you, Bozo, in your canoes, where the Niger reflects Andromeda’s spiral,
where your nets catch the Milky Way’s glint,
I’m with you in the Sahel’s heat, where millet sprouts under starlight’s grace,
where the river sings of Mande kings, of Djenné’s ancient docks,
I’m with you in the Sigui’s trance, masks whirling like nebulae,
I’m with you in the flood’s embrace, fish leaping to Polaris’s call!

Holy! Holy! Holy! The cliffs are holy! The river is holy!
The Nommo’s fins are holy, flashing in Sirius’s light!
The Bozo’s paddle is holy, carving paths through starlit waves!
The Dogon’s mask is holy, eyes burning with Orion’s fire!
Holy the millet, holy the catfish, holy the dust that holds their bones!
Holy the stars, Sigi Tolo, Po Tolo, unnamed sparks above the Niger!
Holy the seers, the fishers, the dancers who defy Moloch’s shadow!

And you, Amma, creator of the cosmic egg, your breath in every grain,
you who spun Sirius’s dance, who poured the Niger’s flow,
you who taught the Dogon to see, the Bozo to sail,
we howl to you from Bandiagara’s heights, from Mopti’s muddy banks,
our voices rising like comets, our feet drumming the earth’s pulse,
we are your star-born, your river-wrought,
we carry your light in our masks, our nets, our unending song!