Words of a Sage
In my proud African village;
I have the honor of hearing
words of a sage,
Saying: Remember this
if the air ever smells of war;
Only a stupid cow rejoices at a prospect of a beautiful
abattoir;
But examine the spear
that landed at your gate before the wound it tore,
For on their ways you
might find many more;
Says the sage: If a neighbor’s spear lands at your door,
Spear you could throw
but that is a weak way to go;
Swallow this: You have
lost his respect and you are to blame;
For neighbor's act is
a measure of lost love and unison at your own home;
Says the sage: question
instead your own grand chiefs for their laxity and callus visage;
Who, in times of windfall
harvest shunned deliberation and seized rancor;
Vesting none for the spirits
of love of the living and the departed;
Who in times of peace
shunned to plant seeds of honor;
Vesting less
sacrifice of unison at the altar of nationhood;
Lacking the wrath to display
at the denigration of their people,
In many lands, waters,
their homes and yonder;
Says the sage: War could
subdue a neighbor but could not install the lost love at your home,
That is yours to work
for and to dream,
Love is no out pour of
a spear but accepting self no matter how grim;
So preceding the blame,
ask why is love not cultivated at home?
That we represent, in
the mirror of neighbors, an image of shame?
…………………………….
