Through thick rising dark smoke,
Silhouettes of sweaty wrinkled faces,
Come alive with blinking red-shot eyes.
Through thick rising dark smoke,
A fearful tune plays the dense air,
Of gritting teeth and heavy breaths.
Through thick rising dark smoke,
Dusty palms drum the rising beat,
In tune with strong chest thumps.
Through thick rising dark smoke,
Loud brave voices whisper,
“Move”, “Stand”, “Move”, “Rise”
Loud deafening voices
loud deafening voices in my head
loud deafening screams in my head
loud deafening wails in my head.
Watery eyes
red watery eyes
red watery eyes on worn wrinkled faces
red watery eyes strained open.
Young souls
young hopeful souls
young hopeful souls bright and vibrant
young hopeful souls tightly woven by boundless love.
The crickets still sing your praises in this dark night
the cold wind still whistles your name in this quiet night
these fading embers radiate your smile and might
a fading light that once illuminated the dark night.
Your footsteps echo in this hollow hut
that sweet voice that put Binare to sleep
that rose up into the starry night and sparkling moon
comforts me in these lonely nights
assuring me of our walk on the golden pathways.
I like white stones, blue stones even purple stones,
Polished, shinning and beautiful,
I don’t like them dark or grey,
Rugged, dull and unpleasant.
I tire and sweat building my mansion,
These colored stones are large and heavy,
But they fit so perfectly,
One on top of the other.
I blended the architect and the mason,
The mason can calibrate straight lines,
The architect can align the stones,
They both strum the same strings.
My neighbors laugh at my structure,
They say the edges are still rugged,
They don’t like the shape of my roof,
But I just beat the wrath of the laden clouds.
I was shading under our beautiful tree,
Frail brown branches with wilting green leaves,
Yellow flowers that radiated a sickening hue,
Its slender stem steadied by deep searching roots.
A chameleon crawled on a frail branch,
Brown skinned, steady, gazing,
The crackling branch startled the perched birds,
And the chameleon clutched the other frail branch.
A strong wind whistled through the leaves,
The green chameleon grasped a young leaf,
Frightened stiff at the sudden wave of misery,
A disguised pose at the mercy of death.
The dry leaves hardly cushioned its fall,
And the grey chameleon lay still in pain,
The hot famine days spared not the dying,
Nor the ants that devoured the rot.
England was gray, rainy and cold,
Yet London buzzed with chants of loyalties to football fanatism,
I dined in an elegant hotel littered with brushed African handiwork,
Reveling in the cultured praise of the new Buckingham purple act.
As I drove through the reminiscent Berlin Wall divide,
In a meticulous precision-engineered motored toy,
I shivered at the revelation of man’s true flip side,
Feigned love, that once bare, darkened a sacred nation.
The Eiffel Tower, a magnificent display of art, science and might,
Cabro-paved streets reflecting on polished affluent boutique windows,
Signature delicacies savored with tasteful licks of fine champagne,
As I sail away, the sun’s blaze on the ocean warms my heart.
I cringe at the sight of a dark age buried deep in truthful lies,
When greed overcame love and saddled horses waded through blood,
A brave sacrifice for the knowledge of the truth we boldly proclaim,
Alive in compassionate hearts beyond the revered streets of Rome.
Mother always buys the best pot,
Fine grains of clay hardened with a fire red hot,
Sculptured with a skillful and cautious stroke,
Beautiful patterns winding from bottom to top.
One had a deep crack on its rim,
Riddled with scratches along its patterned belly,
And a jaded base that slightly tilted its posture,
But mother always made sure it was brimmed with water.
When mother balanced her only pot on her head,
Carefully steading the jaded base gently on her head,
The cracked rim mixing water with sweat on her head,
Our neighbor’s distant laugh echoed in her head.
Our neighbor’s daughter broke their only pot,
Its beauty drenched in sudden sorrow and distraught,
Her tears sparkled in the fading embers of the sun at dusk,
But mother’s cracked pot quenched their thirst.
The sound of war bells ring of horror and death,
A melodious pattern accustomed to grief and death,
The deafening clings echo the painful cry of death,
Drowning the unpleasant hoot of the owl, a messenger of death.
The morning sun rays no longer sparkle the morning dew,
The hovering dark clouds shade a fearful hue,
The village fire’s splinters flicker whenever the cold winds blow,
And the wind’s whistle duets the bell’s dreadful tune.
Clueless young faces drawn with brave stares,
Stiffened, shivering, rigid, rugged bodies,
Emotions interweaving and intertwining cold hearts,
The sudden stamp of spears cannot awaken the gods.
A blinding belief that death will bring hope,
When tears will become victory’s joy,
For the mothers who lose their sons,
The pride of a shield of honor will be their comfort.
The drum beats echo in the quiet night,
One beat, a pause, a sudden louder beat,
A rising crescendo that reeks of fear,
The villagers stare at the well oiled dancers,
Dizzied by their reminiscent encircling of a fierce fire,
The dance not enough to lift their hearts,
The fire not warm enough in this cold night,
The crackling firewood now glows a soft red light,
One beat, a pause, a fainter last beat,
The crowd disperses reluctantly with low murmurs,
I overhear an old man’s weak mumble,
“They forgot to play our song,again”
A tale is told of a three eyed ogre,
So big its steps thundered across the land,
So loud its roar was heard across three villages,
And tales of its destruction drew fear on brave faces.
Yet our village traded its ugliness for beauty,
Its destruction for fear and weakness,
Its intimidation for smiles of subjects,
Its evil growing and spreading across the land.
“What it destroyed last night wasn’t mine,”
“Your dead cattle had ravaged my crops anyway,”
“We’ll protect your son but not his daughter,”
“Our King would have protected us better!”
The carcass stinks to you too doesn’t it?
We buried your mother yesterday, and my brother too,
We starve and stare at our burnt farms,
The ogre is gone, and the cries in the village are deafening.
Words on plain lines draw thoughts,
As the ink dries and the paper blots,
The letters imprint a story almost forgot,
Of heroes and heroines and the cause they fought.
They suffered with smiles of grit,
Our struggle reflecting through their sharp teeth,
Wading through wars and an unrelenting heat,
Driven by our hope of a foretold feat.
So we can share freely our diverse views,
So we can appreciate our diverse cultures,
So we can explore freely our beautiful land,
So we can be together as one.
Lest we forget the tears shed,
Lest we forget the blood shed,
Lest we forget the lives sacrificed,
By heroes and heroines and the cause they fought.
EXPRESSION THROUGH WORDS. 
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