What is this noble calling?
That rings the Shepherds across the Savannah.
That drags the fishermen ashore.
A light that mandates the truth.
A darkness that is a worthy successor.
Can I present my mural with no burning incense?
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What is this charming character?
That sprouts in the murky greens.
That envelope the mush and the arid alike.
A gentle touch for the blooming roses.
A cactus that taunts the nomads afar.
Can the explorer live in the Cushitic present tense?
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What is this fear housing labels twice its size?
That torments the nomadic first step.
That brittles confidence of foundational origin.
A journey that starts with no step.
A destination indulged in redundancy.
Can Hugo cash in his non-explorative tendencies?
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What is this ghost writer you speak of?
That nourishes your public presentations.
That denounces his writers block with ease.
A newspaper riddles the public.
A general belittled by the whispers.
Can I mould my pen with no consistency?
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What is this independence that you seek?
That frees up your caged worries.
That mimics none of the ‘modern’ norms.
A foot soldier frolicking in the Savannah.
A Shephard stargazing with her herd asleep.
Can my freedoms not be guillotined?
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What is this blessing that you long for?
That shields you from misfortunes.
That triumphs in the wake of creative freedoms.
A fickle chance to accompany the elders.
A grandma devoid of her children’s presence.
Can I dance without a care at the elder’s party?
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What are these expressions that you house?
That feed off your creative ore.
That walk the path of the alchemy.
A target of the state that births him.
A manifest for the rowdy expressionists.
Can a state have its cake and eat it too?
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On the eve of the super moon. A day of reflections and recognition. Mainly for inflicting a painful and unsurprising arrivals during the 9th moon ☾. I, with a heavy heart, carry with me a message of choice, of a path laid upon me that goes against the state. A choice with an overwhelming presence that sits a float calm saline water of a shoreline that borders a warzone. With the winds absent-for they ought to keep a consistent appearance to dry the tears of the weeping mothers’ inlands – the grey sand adopts a demeanor so still and elusive that the eruptive mines buried under are a forgotten occurrence. Shadow tales of a past life ring true. Like the stories in the scrolls📜. Incoherent scribbles between the dump pages of the booklet laying on the wooden floor of this dilapidated boat. The type of tales that demand an audience with bonfire flames to warm their hearts. The end of a reign and the beginning of the end of a thriving chiefdom.
So, elegance and mythical, that the greed of chief Matata grew too big for his stomach. So mayoral of him to present a literal gut-spill-over on the round table. So still and elusive his reign was. For no folk in the chiefdom was skilled enough to sew him back! So still and elusive is the grey sand that it would not pass a sniffer test. A land built by actors and showmen. A Barnum circus dressed in brittle sticks. Obviously, not only would an olfactor tell you that the food at lunch parties before the war smells no different than the foods after, but also that the sweaty palms of the daily politico stinks for the former just like it does for the latter. In this spacetime, the Manx cat chopped off its tail for casting doubt on a youthful independence!
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Photo by Omar Eltahan
Written By *Jibaro