Borrowed From The Unborn Poem by James Bako

Either by the big bang or divine architecture,
some were, others were created;
some get, others stare in vacuum
crash landing on concrete floors,
fooled by mirage, thinking it’s a pool.
sorry if you never get an issue,
like you die and your world ends;
sorry if relatives, friends or maids
cut in like weeds shading wheat!
For the ones who die and rise again
with fruits –bitter or sweet,
same way your sun sets
and now you are a full moon.
You’ve broken rules and winds,
and have wrestle with devils and gods:
around you are fortunes and treasures;
when you look into the mirror, you’re a debtor.
Like 'cart pulling horses' on ghost waters,
your fortune to the unborn must pay,
when you’re gone with the wind.
The oceans are not kind,
never let their gift off your eyes,
but that itself is natural when the stem is cut.
Now the day is dawn
and tears wiped without hands,
seated in the palace of glowing vanity;
eyes piercing like the sun,
Then you see written in your soul:
‘When I die, I kill death,
I die no more,
I live again in my seeds.
The lands, houses, business empire,
investments and, all my asset: these you lent me,
but I toil to have them,
they are in your care.
You owe them, together with all
you can add or ‘duct
to generations yet unborn.
you have not inherited them,
You borrowed them.'