The words of K'naan..

[Tuujiye]

I love this brothers talent maansha allah..Y'all suport his work please...I met him live and he is an very cool person who loves his people...

 

this is a poeme by him..

 

POSSESSION

By K'naan.

 

I am told of greatness,

men who've lived twice a life each day,

men who paused to plant their earth their own way,

I am told of peace,

times when stillness rubs passionately with the wind,

times when angels enchant newborns and sing,

I am told of love,

free, unaccounted for, and summoned,

pure, unknowing, and mindless,

I am told of purpose,

some rigidly devoted to it's customs,

consumed entirely by the light unseen,

I am told of commitment,

logic and things that taste like metal,

rhythm-less, but intact and balanced,

But I,

I am a misguided particle,

without face or intent,

without genius to invent,

without sin to repent,

without hazard to prevent,

a lonely one man symbol in a banished verse,

that would have been made into a song,

which would have been realized in a book,

that would have contained my soul,

I am a grain under a well,

poor children drink from, and I can tell when I am well,

Because it comes to me,

they call it poetry,

a great hand submerges in the water to find me,

it sheds it's shade of shadow around me,

my shell is cracked open like heaven's gate,

fierce light traces the proud yellow moon,

I gasp for wisdom and violently begin to consume,

I cry words, I lie truth, I feel used, possessed loose,

I know nothing,

though darkness has taught me something,

profound profanity and lusting,

women, lies and hypocrisy,

ego, music and vanity,

But it comes to me,

they call it poetry,

I drop at it's feet like a faithful servant,

like a child with a broken rib,

like a pet seeking attention,

or like a loud tear,

I cannot refuse it's will,

I am a captive in it's cage,

made a slave by it's rage,

made a man by it's page,

but it comes to me,

I can't say why, how or when,

it comes around like now and then,

I submit like holly men,

without resentment or reserve,

without reason or response,

I cannot refuse it's will,

I am engulfed by it's flames,

it's fire is my friend,

and my enemy in the end.

[Tuujiye]

this one is called "my old home" by K'naan.

 

My old home smelled of birth , boiled red beans , kernel oil, and hand me down poetry. It's brick white washed walls widowed by first paint. The tin roof top humming songs of promise. The wind locked in to demonic rhythm with the leafs. Hugging them, loving them a torturous love. The round cemented pot kept the rain drops cool. Neighbors and dwellers spattering their foreheads softly. Loud children playing football with a sanded sock. No one knew they were poor. All innocent of greed's judgment. The country was combusting with life like a long hibernating volcano.

 

Farmers, fishers, fighters, even fools had a place in production. The coastal line, the coral reefs, the elastic shore, the sand's hue, the glorious mosques, the magical night collapsing willingly over it's inhabitants, the sun of june, the guarding moon, the nap at noon, the freedom poets, the rampant wisdom, the magnetic tongue: Somalia selfishly blanketed vicious ownership over the world's most intense beauty.

 

Then one day it came.

It came like a message,

Like a heart attack sudden.

And with a cancerous fume.

Selling proud folly.

But with a diligent mock.

A morning, a night, or a mythical tale.

Brief and long, unjust and wrong.

A blow, a sound, a deafness in glee.

With warning, without and certain in doubt.

A shock, unfathomed like caves beneath.

They came, they maimed, they raped and killed.

They took, they stole, and prayed in filth.

We flew, we walked, we begged in shame.

We ran, we pled, we shed our names.

 

Oh I must tell you.

Our roads have seen electric hate.

Our women labor beneath stubborn fate.

Our farms produce guilty grub.

Our kids depend on shifty luck.

Our fled are fed on by desert carrion.

Our news is life for death is old.

So don't blame me for truth i've told.

 

See they rack bodies not grain.

Chop limps not trees.

Spend lives not wealth.

Seek vengeance not truth.

Moist pain not plants.

Sharpen feuds not minds.

Defend kinship not honor.

 

Nothing is left of my old home.

Goodwill is looted.

Religion is burnt down.

Kindness is shackled.

Justice is raped.

Murderers hold post.

The land vomits ghosts.

There are,

Pistols with eyes.

Corruption and lies.

Suspicious newborns.

Flaming flowers.

Trusted snakes.

Death without brakes.

Bandits are leaders.

Rumors are law.

Sedatives are faith.

Rapers are praised.

Demons dress well.

Infants are nailed.

Spirits are jailed.

Grudges grow tails and wings and.

Things aren't easy at my old home.

[Tuujiye]

TOO Well done

By K'naan.

 

Justice has a sensitive belly.

I've noticed as a boy.

it has no use for me.

I am to it like fashion to the homeless.

Or an overcoat to the sun.

I've learned at an early age,

that I am an ambitious meal,

waiting to be tasted,

but occasions have come and gone.

Festivities and bloodstained victories,

elaborate celebrations and toasts,

in the name of hospital patients and ghosts,

in the name of hunger and misery,

suffering and diseases,

I've seen it all go by,

i've heard the crackling fire,

the meeting of the glasses,

the men in fine attire,

the burning cigar ashes.

 

Those were joyous days,

angels stripped to beasts,

the truth underneath the truth,

sold out seats and people,

no rights and wrongs, just good points,

opinions rush to form like soldiers,

and soldiers rush to kill for opinions,

that was the age of speech,

and communication, in a land where none dare speak,

and if a fool made the terrible mistake,

someone always screamed,

"can we please watch the war in peace"

the show must go on,

and everyone cheers for thieves,

 

I suppose I am surprised,

having endured time, and even wounds from the angel of death,

that justice has yet to taste me, touch me and smell my open veins,

ignoring me like my own shadow in the sunny mornings,

 

I remember my grandfather, sick and old with wisdom,

hammering his last nail into the wood of my old home,

his eyes dry of tears, nothing left to cry.

He said that I was exotic,

but like vomit, I was tough to swallow.

we sat in our pot,

boiling bothered and hot,

him dying, and me aspiring.

we dreamt and imagined far away places,

where justice ate away faces,

and guts and heads and arms too,

devouring on their discontent,

pecking and licking and chewing on their troubles,

gulping on their fears,

belching out assurance and security for all.

but this does not happen here,

justice does not dine here,

justice dies here,

it cannot take the sun,

or the poverty,

or the lack of sanitation,

but those are only excuses,

because really the truth is,

my ribs are too sour for it's tongue,

my skin is too well done.

[Bess.]

feebaro lol...bro...i luv his words they speak to the somali ppl...i like that...anyways for those of u who don't know him...u can more info about on his website thedustyfootphilosopher.com and also the pace magazine did an article on him...y'all should check him...he is one cool dude :cool:

peace