We are sons of guns
Once sons of men.
Now, dutiful to our guns
Our hearts is daubed with beautiful hatred
...
How do you value those who touched you
Where none has ever touched?
including yourself
those who have drunk from the streams
...
What happens to hope when all hope
Is gone and you still hope?
When you wish and the wish
Granted is more than your wish?
...
In front of a mirror
My eyes stare at me
And my own eyes stares back to myself
A hand's finger touches a cheek
...
Nothing in this world
Past or old
Foretold or yet to unfold
Remains untold
...
And then....
My rosary splits open
scattering fragments of my dreams and hopes in all directions.
my index finger retrieves every bead that falls within grasp
...
We cheered as he was handed the seat.
His words so soothing and sweet
He swore Ethiopia will develop and grow.
War and famine, high and low
...
Dutiful To Our Guns
We are sons of guns
Once sons of men.
Now, dutiful to our guns
Our hearts is daubed with beautiful hatred
And ugly love
Our youthful years borrowed
To Mystic Voyage
From birth at dawn to death at dusk
Via life by midday
We are the slaying generation
An Estate
Hired to death
Planted with bullets
In slaying season
And graves harvested
In dying season
Each dawn awakes a new orange feeling
Shadowed by a wordless numbness at noon
Sunset usher's eventide's restlessness
As terror covers the darkness
Panic envelopes the night
Hearts hammering the chest
Pounding worryingly
Until the rapid rhythm of the heart beats
Matches the pace of the
Drumming Boots of the soldiers
Bang, bang! To eachdoor
Sightless sounds of commanding voices…
"Open up"
A pause…silent noises
Sounds of Gunshots…Ram! Pam! Pam!
Crack open the screaming orchestra
Of women and children
Everyone is guilty until proven innocent
Home is not a safe shade no more
Your own House betraying you
Growing Into a shadow
I wonder why the meat sings
In praise of the butcher
Horror commands the naked hours of midnight
As fear rules the remaining decades of hourstill dawn.
Great people are the one’s who read, but the greatest of all is he who writes