To talk about things
is a thing to do;
There’s an eye that blinks,
and you may have no clue.
What do you say, you wonder,
about the things things that matter;
on the way there’s a thunder,
which roars with much clatter.
The other day, I read,
about a man who was pelted with stones,
almost to death,
his clothes torn; the pain reaching his bones.
Before he could utter a cry,
he was taken away;
in a field of rye,
his body lay.
What did he do, I wonder.
To suffer such a fate;
his body dead, his home sees plunder,
and closed for him are heaven’s gate.
He talked about equality and love;
breaking from chains,
and the caging of the dove
who once flew over the hills and plains.
But the dove so white
hurts the eyes
of those who wear shades of bright –
call themselves wise.
The white dove has been chained before;
the consequences saw blood dripping
from places of worship, I say afore,
the steps on the stairs are again tripping.
The stairs are quite straight, if you see,
with ditches and falls, of course,
take it slow, what’s there to flee?
The uncertainty lies beyond the doors.
The path to the doors is known by all,
and walked and tread numerous times
in winter, summer, spring, and fall,
in the sweetness of honey and bitterness of limes.
There was one who lit a cigarette
and stood around the corner;
asked everyone not to fret,
for chaos belonged to a time former.
He plugged in the microphone,
and stood on the pavement
and talked of the moon that shone
as the passersby across the farm – they went.
There was an uproar in the crowd
For the words that he said made sense
It affected the rick, poor, meek, and proud.
To hear him talk, people jumped over the fence.
A girl moved ahead of the crowd,
her eyes shone in the streetlight;
She said: you can put an end to this endless bout,
and all that is cursed will take flight.
The crowd went louder – cheer and joy;
in admiration and complete agreement,
there were questions asked, but he was so coy;
he spoke clearly, hurting no one’s sentiment.
The clouds roared in thunder,
and the rain began to fall;
people looked at the sky – in wonder,
and some decided to take a stroll.
But the eager, excited crowd,stood still,
listened to their speaker – they did not disperse;
the poet smoked, and glasses of whiskey did he fill,
and let out truthful, well-thought verse.
The rain kept on falling from the sky,
and was seen through the streetlights,
the crowd gathered, no wonder why,
the sky had finally found its kites.
But then a screech was heard,
two cars came to a stop,
and down the tree, flew a bird,
and the rabbit running missed a hop.
Two armed men came out,
from the armored car with siren,
while the poet was quoting – in shout,
some famous words of love by Lord Byron.
Two shots were fired, and the crowd looked around;
the gunmen aimed at them; asked them to leave
before on the ground dead bodies were found,
and a massacre story was ready to weave.
The crowd dispersed,
and the poet was taken inside the car,
the poet, so well versed,
was taken to a place – so far.
Days later, the wind howled in the street,
where the poet once stood;
nothing of him was heard, the candles were lit,
those who knew him gave up for a day on food.
The TV showed very little of him,
the papers had no headline,
they talked of him out of whim,
over cigarettes and glasses full of wine.
And thus another evening was drawn,
with curtains of grey,
no one cared about the frown,
and the hands that prayed.
A few gatherings took place
that talked about his words
and the flowers that he grew in his vase,
and his little garden with rabbits and birds.
But none of them had the courage,
to bring it to the streets,
or to deal with such an outrage,
or to be covered up in white sheets.
And thus, it all drifted away,
like the feathers in wind;
but there was a storm at the bay,
as many, on the wall, they leaned.
The wheel goes around,
like it has always been,
though it makes much sound,
it is often not seen.
Is it a sin to speak
what forms your thought
through thin and thick;
the conflicts that you fought?
Absolutely not; we all can say,
what we feel about the world we live in,
through the cold of January and the heat of May;
of our desires, sufferings, and sin.
Empathy isn’t too hard, if you try
to understand what one feels,
it is not foolish to laugh and cry,
for a wound, with warmth, it heals.
Beyond national, social, and cultural boundaries,
lies a place often not talked about;
has smelling flowers and fruit-laden trees;
here, comfort and peace are sought.
Beyond order, command, and hatred,
lies a mutual understanding,
that we as humans must know, not dread;
there’s a song that all of us can sing.
It is the understanding that, we feel,
and our actions are not just instincts,
the world, as I feel, goes around – like a wheel,
through the eye that is open, closed, or winks.
So people could say what they feel,
make sense or make not,
in the open crowd or in reel,
in words little or a lot.
Leaders were not chosen to suppress
thoughts emotions or desires;
to take control over the press,
or the council, the state, and shires.
Let it be known to all
that deeds are based on needs
and not a divine call;
to the sea, the river leads.
Splash in the river as long as you could,
wet your skin, shirt, and pants,
make a fire together with the logs of wood,
and sit around it, singing a song, holding hands.