The Old Man And His Son Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

Hate me not O’ son
And blame not heaven
For this earthly guidance I show,
Why frown at my meager pay
Equating it to those of Paul’s
It is not my fault,
That the pension firms are on vac
A constant abandon from those leaders
Whose heirs had tasted not
From the sweet-bitter jar of lack,
Why will you rain anger of rage?
And wage a war over tithes
Why become a tool of rebellion?
When great hunger had everly strolled
Along the passage of your bowels
Blame me not for these black days
Blame not the maker of nights and day
Or your mother, the haberdasher
For her returns cannot cloth a fly.
I hate this men in white suits
Gliding in dark tinted automobiles
Of a several million worth
I don’t like them, these government people
Who are never glaziers in nature
But in them are all traces of glass
Sun-shaded in rides of tint texture.
Should we speak of them of polygamy?
Whose concubine own a house of glass
In our paltry cities, towns and villages
Even across the seas of Arctic.
Man is man’s own god
Cry not my money-made man
And look beyond me, your anger
Your brothers, niece and cousins
Look beyond this hovel we stay
Into the striving world of many
And always remember that chill wind
That had greeted our fragile ribs
On every harmattan morning.
Those windows that lose their pride
Standing as skeletons in frames
And it’s broken panes of ages
Coming from your youthful catapult stone.
Strife for perfect restructure
To correct all my failed-rights
Putting things as it seem fit
For this days are exams you must pass
To gain freedom into a gleeful world