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    Young black women with glowing opaque skin,


    Rolling their flesh to the rhythm of Abami-Eda,


    Wearing beads of the gods and painted face,


    No sandal to defile the temple,


    The temple where the warming sound of Afro beat resides.


    The wind in the shrine has smoke written word on it,


    The priestesses on stage, ritual costumes,


    Intelligent African make-up, with no certificate required,


    Familiar looking breast also jumping in accord with the beat,


    And to the master priest himself,