The Road Does Not Remember Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

"If I knew, I would not have gone, " he cried,
As blood and broken bones lay side by side;
A Wednesday night grew colder in the air,
While trembling hands confronted his despair.

His tibia and fibula lay torn,
His wounded flesh by violence ripped and worn;
We fought the crimson tide with gauze and thread,
While prayers and questions circled round his head.

"Will I walk again? " he asked me through his pain,
I offered hope though certainty was vain;
He had finished work, yet sought one task once more,
Not knowing fate was waiting at the door.

So now I pray for those who journey late,
For hands that chase their bread and challenge fate;
The road remembers neither name nor plea—
It takes the night, and leaves the rest to be.