Life begins with a short breath to a long story.
A silence march towards experiences all too gory.
I savor joy, for it is short,
I must smile for happiness cannot be bought.
How can I then wake up and face
The bitterness of this dark place.
Between my conception and desire,
Burns in me life's unquiet fire.
Light your way to a finish line,
That Is blurred and vile.
Where the hopeful dance with ghost smiles and song,
I'm no fool, I wont move to a beat that is wrong.
But- I am just a child of the African soil,
Lest I do what the black man does-take on the ground and toil.
Surely the heavens too will open up its gates,
And deliver us from error with thy golden plates.
I write this poem with a heart content,
That all may see a broken man vent,
And let off the steam of a burning crucible,
That is life! I so moved yet rendered unable.
Still I hold to the motions of a moving life,
Passed the sorrow of the evil men armed with ready knife!
So life goes on and bleeds into my grave,
No verse will stir me now, but a morbid wave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem