I still cannot swallow my words:
I seek the truth, I follow it.
I am like a gourd,
planted in the middle of a garden.
And, like a gourd, I spread across the soil
in all directions to climb the tree of wisdom,
and to smother weeds.
Without history, without fear,
I attack human, breathing actions.
               The the time
               will come
               when I bear fruits
               giant, minute,
               good and bad.
The time will come when visionaries will approach
to weed me out with a hoe of ink
yet other vegetable will not protect me.
The time will come for gourds to be cut,
both whole and damaged will be taken
to be washed in the pots of every town.
Children will play with me - yet, even when they drop me
and I split in half, the seeds will remain, the seeds will remain.
                I know
                I'm not in danger
                The right reader
                in town or country
                will rinse me clean again
Then the time will come
when I'm cast aside,
replaced by goblets of gold,
when I'm tossed angrily in the corner -
behind the times.
They forget their ancestors
relied on the calabash -
it's their culture's very origins
they throw carelessly away.
Remember, remember, remember.