Ode to Toumani Diabate

When the wind
Passes
Its hands through
Trees and soft grass,
When the river
Slides
Through the rocks
Slapping the banks,
When a bird
Flaps
Its feathered wings
Through the air,
And when his fingers
Dance
Like a fisherman
Walking on water,
Then a certain
Beauty
Takes on a life of its own.

What he does
Is not done,
Rather
It is merely a heart of gold
That has found its way
Into sound.
He tells a secret
Revealed
Note by note,
He tells a story
Centuries old
Yet never told
In this way.

He makes wine of water
And intoxicates your ears,
Unveiling a polished gem
That the colonizers ignored,
Mistaking the Mande musicians
As handfuls of Sahel dust;
But really he and his kind
Are the hands that worked
The unforgiving land into the priceless
Mineral and bone that is Mali’s legacy:
Its music.