With silent sinew and mea­sured grace of an African gazelle,

You flung your javelin and im­paled the heart of a na­tion,

Pierced their veil of de­spair,

As you slew the Eu­ro­pean go­liaths of a sport of an­cient times,

You arose from the haze of ob­scu­ri­ty,

When gar­land­ed gold by the world,

Your vic­to­ry be­came that of a peo­ple,

As suit­ed soucouyants pulled at your prize ,

Stran­gling you, your medal now a noose. But above the din of the capri­cious crowds,

Hear the cry of the prophets,

Do not be snared by their gild­ed promis­es,

And skin-teeth smiles,

Re­mem­ber the sweat years of re­hearsal, your fam­i­ly's fi­deli­ty ,

And the Almighty who blessed and kept you,

Be­fore you be­came a na­tion's fix­a­tion,

And give thanks.

Suzanne Bha­gan

Via e-mail