I knew I was coming to life,
Like a newly sprouted seed,
Conducive was my enclosure
And warm it was for my comfort.
Soon I realized I grew bigger
As a watered seed.
I loved the care I received,
As dry earth enjoyed torrents of rain,
But suddenly a gloved hand came probing,
Metal instruments appeared troubling.
I was murdered at the genesis
Of my conception.
I cried as I gave way,
Like a tree that was axed down,
The mischief-makers at this thought, I cursed
Who is murdering me? I shouted
Though unheard, I shed silently,
Tears of blood, for a time in death.
Passing On
Just at the dawn of a Monday morning,
My spirit, seized by omen of mourning.
At the raise of my head
I see death dashing ahead.
Even before its sting pricks
Its fear in my heart ticks.
How truly, I tremble
All living and lifeless around me tumble.
The touch of death's cold hand,
Freezes and fires my being to unknown land.
I am carried beyond and away
To where I will stay for aye.
Furiously, I gasp for breath
Perhaps, the last breath of death.
Now, the sight of death more glaring,
Its pang, more daring.
I become enmeshed with awe
Of seeing the world no more.
The pain of death, is suddenly gone
I may have been passing on.
The Way of the Poor
The way of the poor is crooked
Bumpy, rough and odd.
Destiny makes some to trek the way
As if to it they are hooked.
He who treads it, must have a rod
To fight the dangers of each day.
The dwelling of the poor is wretched
Unkempt, devastated and hard.
Its dilapidated sight sickens the mind
What a lay-waste, an uprightly shed
A fervent prayer must have been heard
To sleep therein so sound.
The world of the poor is useless,
Uneventful, regrettable and unpredictable.
It’s unfit, indeed a battle field.
Struggle for the poor is endless,
As passing through it seems inevitable,
Until wealth will come to yield.
« return.