Not Just A Poem Poem by Rex-mayor Ubini

Why should I die to live,
When I’m only living to die?
Nothing have I that wasn’t given to me;
From the air of my nostril
To the blood of my vein.
What is more precious than the gift of life?
If it can be given,
Then what…?

Neither the curl of my lips,
Nor the flash of my teeth,
Nor the beckoning of my eyes
Came from my hands.
Neither the span of my hips,
Nor the glow of my skin,
Nor the grace of my physique,
Came from my hands.

Why should I be moved by my needs?
Be you emotions, be you desires,
Move me not, push me not,
I refused to be moved or pushed about
By the hands of things
That are freely given to me,
Or things I can be given.

Yes, I have this world in my eyes,
But I refused to be moved by her wiles,
Or by anything except the pure breeze
That proceeded from the tongue of ages,
Carved on tablets of stones,
Or tattooed on scrolls.
This is where my hope breathes,
This is not me,
But wisdom that you can receive.