nothing so beats the thrill
of an idea brought to fruition.
the very act of the minds spark, of design overall
confirms in His image we truly emanate.
yet with bitter scowl
old Mzee Kimani did confide
these minds shall be our deaths so foul
how so, thinking him just another old man i chide
i hear of weapons that raze down cities,
i hear of deadly disease cooked up in white rooms,
i hear of taboo acts in these gadgets with our young,
forlorn he spits, as if the words his mouth bitter had made.
rather than delve in great argument purely
with a wise old man i now respect truly,
in as much as they seem, such becomings are but ours
i tell, they were to be and so they shall,
and it does suffice
as the old man nods suddenly lost in thought.
one day i shall be old Mzee Kimani
and i know this conversation shall again surface.
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Comments about this poem (I think. by John kago )
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