The archive
Left on the ground
With magazines in their pouches.
Let us keep our lamps
Burning on the little oil
Now left in them
Till the time comes.
“On guard” even when we doze
In the cold night
Let not the sleep
Enter our heavy heads.
So many years of mosquito bite
Have made us used to them
And we do not carry again
Any germs of malaria
For we grow fresh in the bush
Wooing the beautiful bride
Of the lost liberty.
P.O. Atuu · 1993
EDITOR’S NOTE
Originally published in Citizen on 22 November 1993, p. 36. This diplomatic transcription preserves the wording and lineation verified against the archived page.