Heritage Poem by Thabani Khumalo

Heritage

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This is not a message from any mountain:
it is neither from Zion nor Olympus;
it is neither documented on a page
nor is it engraved on a tablet of stone.
It appeals to the operating thetan of a deity.

Listen to the herald having brought a news from above.
A news from the heartbeat of God whom we all dearly adore,
The God of Christmas who's always dressed in white garments;
One with a glowing halo around his royal head.
Not one who's clad in a hooded robe with a pointed head -
not a silhouette that blends concoctions from a dark cave of horror -
Not a politician that stalls you by the tomes
and dispose of you in a trash bin of incompetence -Not one who knows how to hate the words of any book.

We have achieved great contrives with our hands, but have we not weighed above that in collateral destruction?
Have we not demolished more than we have built?
Look and you shall see, it seems to me as if all these questions are colloquial.
We have tailored dissection into existence,
it startles one half of my wits:
We've counted the particles of the blowing air,
we cut space into many pieces of time,
we legitimized polarity within society,
we invented tribes and their sister languages -
we've occasioned hatred of the human anatomy.
We've pressed our lot to socially self-efface.

Can we be proud of the meso' and the atmosphere
which we broke down to manufacture the flaunted lethal weapons?
Can we be proud of livestock from whose skin we strap and fashion whips
and flog people like we've forgotten they are made of living flesh?
Have we not zealously inculcated murder through the syllabus
which is the wits, the intelligence and the politics of the progeny?

We erect monuments from the ground and tag them with high value
while we labor and sweat, wringing wet, for the depth of the grave.
If we find no honest man to quietly assail in a slog of heavy labor,
we sacrifice a famous thief before we carve his image into an expensive statue.

This is the voice of God without encumbent measure by a mortal prophet -
The God who doesn't know any degree of ignorance - One who believes that all men are equal, says:
"None is important above the other,
so no day colored by the shade of the sun is important above the other.
I wonder what the intention is with the riots in the streets,
from whose book did you derive the data?
Thou shalt not murder any person,
for every gulp of our benign breathe
is our true heritage."

Saturday, November 17, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: future,heritage,people
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