Old Bukumau
p. 46 · Read in the full issue
The Death Feast of Old Bukumau
The drums send news with a beat of death, And the old wives keen through the long, hot night; In growing frenzy the dancers move On the shingled shore, by the husk fire’s light.
The surf on the reef beyond the cove Lends to the dawn a wilder note; A child’s weak a mongrel’s bark— Or muttered words from a song tired throat.
Youths are untying the pungent weed, As they cluster where weary dancers lie By the woman whose bloodstained breasts are bare.
But Tetea, the widow, with tender sigh, A flower most stealthily twines in her hair.
She has killed her pigs for He-who has-passed: Her yams ares garnered for death feast’s due!
Now her matted hair may be oiled —at last— And her soot-smeared body bathed anew.
Speed on, slow hours! Come, crescent moon!
Kagela has danced the wild night long— His limbs massaged to a sinuous gleam, Was ever a youth so brave, so strong!
He-who-has-passed is an ugly dream . . .
Comes the lad’s soft chant of a lover’s boon Long years denied, and of witch craft rare.
Then triumphantly rings out his marriage song!
He has seen the flower in Tetea’s hair— The flower of love in the widow’s hair!