Poetry

My song of rebirth tuned in,
Accompanied by the whine and wine,
Of bullets and blood, and the drumbeats

Born again without my mother this time, Nature was to nurture me. My wounds grew bigger and all they could feed on was salt,

From where I am, I have touched the eagle in flight. And memory will not erase this sight. I soften the pace to my destination. And stand too, to listen to this morning’s oration.

The early hours of this morning met me sinking in tar,
I felt the cold of dawn and I was the black sheep of the family.
Such a cold rebirth!

Yet, she says I remind her of hope;
Anytime she looks into my eyes,
She believes she can dream again.
We can still dream again.

They return as flowers from their long time journey into the spirit land,
That we should now care for them.

my grandfather, my friend and my teacher wrote within me the last words of this poem; We are books and we should be written in the ink of love for education. We are books, write your pages with love and come alive with each page.