Rasta Israel Uda
The Rake's Man
Bewildered by the rants coming across street,
He fine-tuned his tool to clear away leaves
That rest on the sand shore in a compound so glued
to its tidings.
Putting up with a fair weather friend, who claims
to understand his world on a rock. The birds signal
their empathy to him as he master's the art of being
contented in a world so unreal to his true emotions.
In retrospect, he roamed in a place so desolate,
accompanied by the east wind that casually splashes
the dust to his side. Consumed by cynicism,
He grins out of blue.
The magnified strain of their utterances makes his
stomach crave for a fast of sanctity. With an inner
voice that says, Lord, what have I done to be in a
place with so much indignation of your holy sanctuary?
As he water's the garden, sprung on autumn horizon,
wind from the south whispers to his system of a
farm below rogue town that lightens the way on a
Sure lane which says be still fellow. Just make
your way on a highway with street lights. On new horizon,
He reads, His breaths, His purpose, beyond still waters.
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