The Poet Heroes(When Gone) Poem by Dickson Wasake

Every man young,
dreams of lofty grandeur,
of conquering lands foreign and alien,
and women and loot in between,
and when returning from battle,
he comes praised as conquering hero,
and as gods of old,
feasts on ambrosia and nectar,
till his days' end.
They however only dream on,
until they wake up,
bald and fat,
old and fart,
waiting to die.
No grandeur,
no women angelic,
or money overflow.
Just plain old men,
reigning upon lofty kingdom,
of cold bed,
cold women,
cold children,
and crowns upon crown of debt.

What about my fate you ask?
My fate and my hope are one;
that tales of my quiet revolution,
shall be whispered about,
in your duukas,
in your motokas,
and beds.
Lovers whispering to one another,
a verse or two,
in passion.
Men in battle, learned or not,
reciting line or two,
for courage,
or perhaps to warm failing heart,
of dying man at comrade side.

The poet heroes' hope, is thus;
that they shall take our verse,
and drink of it,
just like men around malwa pot,
sharing that brew from pot with one straw too few.
How peaceful such men pass straw around pot!
Round and round to neighbour man it goes,
even if recepient man is now greatest foe,
in just concluded battle debate,
about the greatest footballer,
in that land whose people ask;
that God save the queen,
while they themselves drown in sorrow,
and church building where perhaps,
saviour God may be sought,
only stands as a relic abandoned,
or just the last bastion of latin language ancient.



Duesus mues et confido,
Oh Lord, you i trust,
that while I am gone,
perhaps like bard of biblical psalms,
the words of us the poetic dead,
shall be as sweet air scented,
to give life hope to these grateful undead.
'Ave maria, gratia plena,
Sancta Maria, mater domini nostri, '
Hail Mary full of grace,
Holy Mary, mother of God,
They steadfastly whisper in prayer,
as we too whisper;
'hail many full of grace,
all men, sons of God,
should see our hopes and dreams,
in these our odes to existence.'

This is my silent prayer,
that when i am gone,
you sons and daughters of the revolution,
shall sprinkle a quiet verse or two,
as a word sacrifice to the heavens,
upon this poet man's anniversary.
When i am gone,
let them say,
that i was a harbinger of the time coming,
just like the winds of change,
blowing across these gigabitic grasslands?
listen, listen,
do you hear it?
do you not see it?