the birds of asante flew between the caged beams of my ribs and set foot gently in my heart. the ruins of thorn bush and lizard herds all graced the edges of my eye, the swiftness of my scent. the troubled dry skies stood tearless no longer. they soaked in that moisture from somewhere, who knew?, and they let down the rains into this palm. the voices of angels haunt this silence, this unwanted solitude. they guide me north, walking at a snail’s pace into the burning fire horizon. where upon this land should I find the love, find the space to repent, find forgiveness perhaps? oh asante, on these pebble infested beaches, on the high-sided mold layered mountain cliffs, and deep within the greens… upon this sacred land what should I soon find? my fingers dry and my feet leather. I wipe the golden sweat from my brow, asking for the next. but it is only I who treks these ruins, inside this mind. of asante I found the key. here I use it properly so. what comes back to this world? well, perhaps it is best told by the lines, the recordings of picturesque postscripts and flailing verbal jargon. asante. the love of my life. the land of all that is righteous. all that is holy. I will go home, again and again.