Three long years ago, where were you, were you plowing through the heat, turning it to either side? Were you strong-armed plowing, were you able?
Had you been blest with the eyes of Swayambhunath; had you been blest with the spiritual chastity of Sita, avatar of Lakshmi, the harsh-mouthed perceiver; had it been a time of pilgrimage for you, nesting on the sides of the seven hills of the new-born city: Constitution Hill, College Hill, Federal Hill, Tockwotten Hill, Smith Hill, Christian Hill, Weybosset Hill;—had it been, you might have seen!
Great and heavy things were being pushed up hills by strong-armed men in those old days.
Tell me, brave souls, did the currents that heave the earth, the water, and the air show you their faces?—did they give you their bodies?—did they fling at you their pamphlets?
There is a fire that burns beneath the earth, a second sun, whose emissions spurt from volcanos. A sharp spike on the seismograph roll three years ago in the month of Nissan—the first month—that trembled over the vast plains of Iyar, the month of blossoms, the second month—that hurled itself from upper bound to lower bound until the moon herself tore up the oceans in protest at the fluxion of the months—and then: silence. Regretful night and her planet wove their enchantments to wake the brooding spirits of the past. But the tip of the needle was rusted; the paper torn; the apparatus bent.
And silence for three long years...
On August 21, 2012, deep inside the Legon Seismological Observatory, a young Ghanaian named Elvis was struck by a series of strange readings on his geophone, which were soon corroborated by reports transmitted by radio wave from the various satellite stations which dot south-eastern Ghana, in Tema, Shai Hills, Akosombo, Koforidua, Kukurantumi, Weija, and Winneba. The Ashanti golden stool began to emit luxurious golden photons bearing holographically the trace of an emerging soul, struggling, as the queen mother Yaa Asantewaa, a little over a century before, had struggled against Sir Frederick Hodgson, through the fields of battle.
Meanwhile, the hard seeds of the lotus were rattling in the hand of an infant.
Meanwhile, the burning fire was unlocking the spirit in the log.
(For the massy titans three years is like the click of a lighter.)
