Leave alone to guffaw and giggle
I cant snicker or chuckle
It even has been long since i lost my smile
I just weep, sob, wail and then snivel
...
Born in Eritrea Asmara, language teacher, poet, article writer, public speaker, married and fathered three, refugee, you-tuber.)
My Dawit
Some of my recent English poems
My Dawit
Dawit, the son of Isaac
Enough was his name to be respected,
For the truth he shared
The principles he stood
For the pen his might
For his right for right
He deserved dignity and award
Not a chain from a coward.
My Dawit, locked in Ira-Iro
Opened in Malmo
My Dawit, Destroyed locally
Erected universally
My Dawit, Chopped into pieces by tyrant cruel
His parts Joined by soulful Sweden..
Disdain lover feared My Dawit,
Eritrea`s Goliath handcuffed his right
My Dawit Was
Muted, tortured, thrown into cell of hellish plight
Because he strove to inform, enlighten and guide
Hence I commemorate my Dawit with an oath to fight
Dictators who darken innocent mind.
My Dawit, you are now to be Reborn, resurrected
Your steps will be followed, your Library visited
Your identity uplifted, your kids dignified
Your objectives continued and attained
Thus you will never be dead.
Teacher of the past and present are killers who darken the minds of innocent people.
culturally and customarily Eritreans are desirous of good things. Beyene Haile Kasa, Eritrean author (Dquan Teberh)
Since Democracy is enormous as an Elephant the people need to quickly elephantine. If our men (human power) and institutions can`t echo our national identity our independence will shiver and shrink. (its closest translation)
killing artists has never killed art. They may die but their works are eternal and universal.