Sunday, November 16, 2008


This is the word.

Once the language of victims,
But in this sorry world, we must confess,
Now it often flows from the mouths
Of those who’ve swiftly learned to oppress.

This is a well.

Once it was a living thing,
Once watered our crops, our land.
Now it stands useless, slowly
Filling with memories and sand.

This is a seed.

This tiny green promise.
Where the wind will carry it, none can know.
I read in a black book a long time ago,
What you reap is what you sow.

This is a stone.

With one such as this,
Against the order of the world, defiant,
A single shepherd boy
Brought down to earth an armoured giant.

This is a poem.

Sometimes its words are lost,
Drowned by the voices of false gods.
Just once in a while it is an incitement
To live and fight against all odds.

Thanks for all your kind messages of support. Fighting fit again.

1 comment:

  1. That poem was helped by the structure being what moved it, stanza by stanza. Content is primary, that doesn't mean that structure doesn't have its place. The form made the content dynamic.