Under the sun’s blazing gaze,
Where baobab giants stand in a daze,
Sits the griot, with eyes that gleam,
A weaver of tales, a living dream.
His voice, a river, flows deep and strong,
Carrying stories that have been sung,
Of warriors bold and maidens fair,
Of kingdoms lost, and battles rare.
He speaks of ancestors, wise and old,
Whose spirits whisper secrets untold,
Of lands unseen, of creatures grand,
Of magic’s touch, and destiny’s hand.
With each word, he paints a scene so vivid,
That hearts are captured, and souls are lifted,
He bridges the past, the present, and all,
A living legacy, that will never fall.
From village to village, his journey goes,
Planting seeds of wisdom wherever he sows,
He is the memory, the keeper of lore,
The griot, the voice, that will forevermore,
Echo through the Ages, a timeless song,
Of where we came from, where we belong,
A unity of voices, both new and old,
The griot’s story, is forever to be told.
