Poetry: Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st

Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe'st

Serve the poet more papers,
the first ones are done;
then listen how to serve him:
take the poet
in a big, a very big hotel,
where blood is served,
(In the chapel of soldiers)
then serve him not
any cup of coffee,
tepid, cold or hot,
half-burnt, or black burnt.
Serve him the cracking clips
of the blood bathed quill,
and just a pot of paint,
to dress the wounds.
Only un-nursed wounds
smell worse than weeds.
Greater miracles are performed
by the barrel of the pen
than the guns have ever done.

Serve the poet more papers,
with dog-eared pages,
over-stained with perfect dirt:
life is not well-shaped;
it has wounded lips,
like the lips of abnormal godchild.
Take the poet,
in a big, a very big hotel,
where diabetics are served
sucrose in the salt,
or salt in the sugar
serve the poet chloroquine,
to mend our broken shoes
(eaten by teeth of nails on our beds),
for the healing power
of chloroquine lies in its bitterness;
once the bitterness is over,
the sickness is healed.

Serve the poet more papers,
for your silent lamentations
outnumber the seashore sands.
Only grieved words can describe;
words are sharper than swords.
Tears shed on papers are easier heard
than the thudding feet
of ten thousands swordsmen
marching for genocide,
in the still of the night.
Serve him not the people's meat,
but the barrel of the pen;
sit back limbo, quiet
on your bed of pain
as he surges the panting pus:
don't bite the hand that treats you.
Once the pus is pierced,
the pain is over;
and what is more
the sick world is healed.



O beloved, I am your beloved man;
Ruping is your beloved lover,
Son of Luo, the son of Kakanyero.
I sing this love song for you,
The daughter of the lily,
The lily of the wet valley,
Anyadwee, of Gulu Town.
The river between us
Roadblocks us from loving each other.
O, my most beautiful rose,
The rose of the green valley,
A white man surpasses you with color O.
Oh no! You are a white woman,
Ay! white rose in black skin.
I came to this sugarcane garden to work,
And then pay your dowry; 
I came this sugarcane garden
to work
And then marry you,
Little though they pay me,
The mangiest salary, 
Our Akumu marriage must enter,
But one barrier stops me from loving you:
Your lovely sister wants me to marry you,
But your brothers hate our sweet love.
They want to break us apart.
Your lovely mom wants me to marry you,
But your father wants to cut off my neck
Because I am deeply in love with you;
Be says I am not good enough to marry you,
He says he doesn't speak my language,
He says you don't know my language,
He says my tribe eats people,
He says my culture is barbaric,
Barbaric! Barbaric! Barbaric culture!
He says I don't have Matooke plantation,
O he says I don't have a herd of cattle,
O he says I don't have AK47 for his rearing cattle,
O he says I don't look presentable,
O he says I am a black charcoal:
Ruping is as black as a well burnt charcoal!
O my beautiful woman,
O my beautiful Anyadwee,
Must I miss a woman because of these objections he counts?

O no, my beloved O! 
My love for you is so natural,
My love for you is so emotional,
My love for you is so international,
My love for you is like God,
Everywhere, everywhere, my love!
Even if I don't have money,
Stay with me till I die.
True love never dies,
But the love for worldly things dies
And dies forever and ever more;
It fades away like a beautiful shadow!
Your name is a vase of roses,
Smelling sweet perfume
From the Kenya Highlands,
Where the white settlers drove
The black laborers with whips.
Your eyes are a pair of stars;
Your beautiful legs are twin golds,
Glittering like the beauty of the Pearl.

But my only worry is you might leave me O!,
Under the pressure of your people,
Who say I don't belong to your tribe,
Who say I don't know your language.
But my love doesn't know any people.
My love doesn't know any race,
Be it black or white, yellow or green O,
My love doesn't mind any race O.
It is blind to those xenophobic ones, 
Be it a European, an Indian or an African,
True love never ever discriminates O!
Be it an Australian, Japanese or Chinese,
American or an Aaaaaaaaaaaa!
My love never ever underrates,
My love is not the Apartheid Policy.
I am a proud African.
You're my beautiful black beauty;
Your skin is the skin of Shea-nut oil,
Glistening like a dust of goldfish.


Ruping, my beloved man,
Look into my starry eyes,
I have something to tell you:
You are the joy of my life;
If they refuse our love,
I will fall dead before them.
I love you not for money.
I love you not for your tribe.
I love you not for your language.
I love you for you are my joy.
Money cannot buy love;
I will love you till I die.
My love for you will always be,
I love you not for your color.
I love you not for your race.
I love you not for your culture.
After all, I am an African girl,
I know how to cook malakwang,
With nice tasting rotten cowhides,
Pasted with thick sim sim paste;
I know how to dress like an Acholi woman,
With hems dragging on the ground.
I know how to kneel before your papa;
I know how to kneel before your mama,
With both knees stuck on the ground.
I will learn Acholi language;
I will eat what you eat.
Don't leave me, my love,
Just because I don't belong to your tribe,
For true love springs the heart,
From the depth of the heart,
Not from the depth of the tribe,
Nor races, nor languages of the world.


O my sweet daughter of my mother,
My reverend mother-in-law,
Anyadwee, I love you
From the depth of my heart.
New moons come and die on my head,
While I blow thee my best flute,
And sing for you the loveliest song.
Many, many beautiful ones are dying for me,
But unluckily I have no more vacancy
In my heart, except the one for you,
Anyadwee the Beautiful One.
Who else is like you?
You have filled the missing chasm
My former wives left in my heart;
They could not understand me,
But now I have got you, O baby,
The daughter of Gulu Town.
They say the beautiful ones
Are not yet born,
But since beauty lies in the eyes
Of the beholder,
I behold that the most beautiful one
Is now born, and that is you, Anyadwee.
I came to this sugarcane garden
To work and then marry you.
My ancestral cattle have gone to Kotido;
Our cattle have gone to Kotido,
Cattle raiders came from the Far East,
And kidnapped our cattle.
Now I feel the blowing dry winds
In the Acholiland.
If the cattle were there,
I would marry you with the whole kraal;
If granaries still stood on our compound,
I would marry you with the whole barns.
Daughter of the moon,
Ruping would have married you.
I came to this cement mine,
To work and then marry you.
My mother wants to see you;
She wants me now to marry you.
I left Natasha the City Girl,
And followed you, Anyadwee.
You are not a lady of makeups,
Lipsticks on the lips,
Eyeliner on the eyelashes,
Lucifer's claws on the fingers,
Miniskirt above the thighs;
You are a simple village girl.
You are not like Natasha the City Girl,
With a python skin;
You are a simple village girl,
Well-mannered, sweet tongued,
The host of innumerable ceaseless guests.
O daughter of the lily,
The valley of the red roses,
Love me the way I am,
The poor orphan child:
Mother died in the Great War,
Between the regime and the rebels.
My real father died in the Great War,
Between the regime and the rebels.
Anyadwee, hear my flute:
The child of a poor man
Lives by his own hands.
I want you to be mine, baby girl.
Will you marry me, Anyadwee,
The daughter of the moon?


Yes, I will marry you, my beloved one.
True love comes from the heart,
Not from the West, nor from the East,
Not from the North, nor from the South,
But from the heart of the heart,
Of the two in the love.
Not from the mother, nor from the father;
Not from the sisters, nor from the brothers,
But from the depth of the hearts
Of the two in the love.
Don't enter into two people's issue;
I will marry you, my dove:
Pay deaf ears to rumormongers.
The clouds are pregnant with golden rains,
The winds of love are blowing:
Take me away O beloved,
Take me away where nature sways gladly,
Take me away among the roses,
The dandelions, lilies and golden marigold,
And show me love, and kiss me.
I am tired of hearing artificial natures,
I am sick of noise, smokes, teargas and riots;
Take me far from the madding crowd,
To the green mountain sides,
Where pastures bloom for the sheep.
I am tired of the sickening city life,
Watching orphans on the bare streets beg,
Watching blood of the innocent flow;
I am tired of the stinking city life,
Full of nasty, weird and disgusting life.
Take me away from the muddy roads,
Full of pothloes and job-seekers,
Of mothers and children caught
In the hungry jaws of wheel killers.
Take me away from this dirty games,
Full of lies, murders and violence,
Of politricksters, assassins and rioters;
I want to feel the cool winds,
Blowing on the head of the mountain,
Where waters run deep with warm love,
Like in the Garden of Eden.
The son of the king,
My handsome Prince,
Ruping, do you love me,
And won't you leave me O?


May I drop dead, my Princess,
If ever I drop you like a rejected stone.
I swear by my dead mother,
Whose breast I sucked till my teeth were full,
That I, Ruping, won't leave you.
Many men have conned you,
But dropped you like a rejected stone.
They left the white ants on the anthill;
You are the white ant they left:
Your skin is like the wings of white ants.
Your neck resembles the neck of Abino jar.
Your eyes are a multitude of stars;
your teeth sparkle like diamond dust.
Sadly, truly,
Many men have deceived you
With the greatest lies of their lives,
But they have damped you like a rubbish
Into their dustbin of their history ...
Men are like women,
You never can trust them with your heart to keep.
But I trust but you, Anyadwee;
They say all men are the same,
But I disagree with them all;
All men are not the same
All men are not the same, but equal,
So my love for you will never change.

River doesn't flow back to its source, Anyadwee;
You are now so ripe and nature must take its course.
You are the brightest star at night,
In whom my broken heart delights;
You are the heaven on the earth:
I will you till my last breath;
I will take you away from the city,
To my people in the local community.
I will take you to the mountain side,
Where we will play hide and seek:
I seek you. O when you hide,
I will kiss your dimpled cheeks,
And make love blooms in the wild,
Where no forbidden fruit grow white.


I love your love song, darling;
You're killing me here softly
Tarry not, take me now home,
And I see your papa and mom,
Where I see the sky, blue sky,
And we become one, you and I,
Till I become a loving mummy,
And you become a loving daddy.
Hold my hands and take me away,
Take me forever, now and today.

(The Ugly Ones Are Already Born)

Soft words are patiently said:
Good things are for those who wait,
For the beautiful ones are not yet born.
So I patiently waited for tomorrow's presence,
But they were sweet soft words of afterlife;
All I have ever seen is tomorrow's absence.
Soft words soften hard hearts.
The treasure in my box of chocolate;
Did you ever see my brown box of memory?
The whole box was stolen while I slept,
Snoring on my bed of thorns like a toddle.
You must have seen my Gwele;
It is a bed made of bagged cotton wool,
And bundle of sticks hard enough to break your ribs.
Those bundle of sticks I crossed them on the bed.
Soft words really soften hard hearts.
"Don't worry, Ruping, women are like waters!
You never can finish them all!
They are as many as the stars of heavens,
All women are the same!"
They often comfort me like a crying child,
Whose loaf of bread has fallen on the soil;
They made me wonder if they have tasted all women,
That all women are the same! 
That the beautiful are not yet born,
And spilled milk cannot be scooped back.
All they say are like a flying flag
of a mickey mouse independence.
"Are the ugly ones already born?" I ask them.
"Anyadwee is one of the beautiful ones already born!
If not so, when will the beautiful ones be born?
You mean to say they're born if I am dead?"
I ask them and their mouths are now tall,
Like the beaks of marabou birds, 
With burning anger running through their spines.
They are my clan men after all.
I must rise up tomorrow as if I am mad,
And travel to Kampala, city of the people,
And search for my lost wife in the city squares,
Until I bring her back home;
If not, then how will I endure the cruel mockeries
of my kinsmen, age mates and village men?
How will I, Ruping, son of Okayo-Tobi, live here,
In this jealous village of Kakanyero? How?
How will Ruping stand the fierce roaring laughters
Of the village women from Kakanyero and Kakamega,
Who come in quest of waters from the well
Dug by my forefathers ages ago in Kakanyero,
And they are to walk many miles away back homes,
Because their lousy government failed to bore
Mere holes of boreholes in this region,
while they gallop for tax payers' money,
And bend their funny heads extending
Some nonhumanistic noncomposmentistic
Nonprofessional nonconstitutional
Nonstoppable combatant and neo colonialistic presidential age limit,
While village women leave their homeless houses
Through bushes in search of clean drinking waters:
Leaving their houses before their husbands are done,
Before the last cockcrow like Samaritan women,
Before their babies wake up hungry
And begin demanding breastmilk
From their flat milkless chests,
Because foods don't satisfy them in the first place?

The clan men gathered their grey heads against me,
With thousands false accusations, choices,
And hidden intrigues, seen in their red eyes.
They have chosen seven virgin women for me!
I wonder if virgin mothers are there.
They say I must choose one from their choices,
Or take them all at once to replace Anyadwee,
Who is gone already, they say:
Gone never to return like the stubborn new colonialists;
They say she is in a safe custody of Mugaga the rich man.
I wonder if there is any safe custody,
Because they remind me of my very police;
You never can be safe in their hands,
Even if you were imprisoned like Mandela.

                               No, I will not tarry about.
          I will wake up tomorrow with machetes in my hands,
              And never listen to their words of the dead,
              And make the biggest surprise in their lives;
                   Not just a surprise, but a great wonder:      
                            I will prove them all wrong,
            If they think their artificial love will conquer me.
       My love for Anyadwee is a natural spring of living water.
           I will let them marry their artificial virgin women,
                      Whose beauties are made of makeups,
                     And let them know, true love conquers all,
                          And that true love is not forced;
                               I will marry who I want,
             Like the government kills who they want most.
                Yes, I will travel to the city on foot tomorrow,
           Though my legs will swell like those of Oliver Twist,
                      With machetes in my naked hands,
                    To gather back what belongs to Caesar.
                    They say I lack elderly respect for them,
                        And that I think childish thoughts,
                      But they with their elderly thoughts
                  Forget to remember my right to choices.
                      They threaten to excommunicate me
                 If I break their mouths and follow my ways,
                  By not choosing their ready made choices.
                                    No, I follow my heart;
                   Life is what you choose, to be or not to be.

         No w
Weapons formed against my love shall prosper;
                 I am my love defender, she is my world
                  The girl bloody mosquitoes bit me for,
                  The girl I endured bitter cold nights for,
The girl I postponed sleep for,
                           The girl I refused to eat food for,
The girl I risked my whole life for...
I will never ever succumb to their hollow-bottomed threats;
              My heart is my king, and my fear is my enemy.

               Where my heart is is where my treasure is,
             So come elephant-rains or flames of sunshine;
            No cartons of traditional and political threats    
                       Shall frighten me from my love of life.
                           I will fry my groundnuts tonight,
              And roast my long cassava, and pack them up,
      And fill up my long umbilical corded calabash with water,
                   And all my safari necessities ready to go
              Before the people of Kakanyero are awake,
                             At the red dawn of Lakana,
          And then I rush to face the wild cat in the city,
                   That catches people's chicken at night,
                   That has bribed Obina with five cents
          To lure and turn the head of Anyadwee from me;
               Obina will take the share of the price too,
                For accepting to be used as a cat's paw.

      Still, soft words are said to win my heart of stone.
          They say many moons have passed now,
                And that foreign girls are stubborn;
                  They pack all your things in secret,
               And leave you a broken wall of Jericho.
                   Yes, sometimes I don't doubt that
                  That could be a brilliant reasoning;
                    I hear they conspire to sacrifice my Anyadwee
                    To the hungry gods of their forefathers.
              They say secretly that she is a slave girl.
                             A slave girl?
               Let them try! They will milk a male wild cat!
                    They will fan the flame of third world war!
                   But I know Anyadwee from A to Z;
                 She is a daughter to Balidina Lakang,
                                    And Jack Lumoro.
                            She is a born of Kakamega,
                            The neighbor of Kakanyero.
               She not a spiritual slave in a spiritual prison.
               She is a free born, not born with the side rib;
                   Differences should not make a difference. 

(Love Confession) dec 29, 2017

It got into my twin eyes,
Opened the gate of my heart,
Captured my mind,
Imprisoned my soul
Like an incorruptible virus,
Beat out food appetite
And cancelled night sleep,
Filled my sleepless nights
With rainbows of dreams,
Engraved your holy name
On the tablets of my heart,
Gave its pulsating rhythms...

It devoured my flesh  
Like a hungry lion,
Got into my bone marrow,
Consumed up my little fat
Like a dry season wild bushfire,
And left me in a skeletal suit;
Got deep into my heart,
Created a chasm there,
And increased the missing fever.
And left me helpless:
There's a hole in my heart
Only you can fill; 
I am sick without you.
People talk rubbish behind me,
And say our love is blind,
But they're blind to see
That love lies in the heart
Of the holder,
Let alone beauty...

It intensified the enmity
Between darkness and light.
Some friends unfriended me,
Relatives say I have gone mad.
Sometimes I don't disagree with them;
Love is but a whole madness.
My mind refuses to think
Outside the coat yard
Of your colorful world,
All it maps in its huge
Central processing unit
Is your beautiful picture...

I am in love confession;
You're the pillar of my life.
If you fall off,
I will be worse than
A face without a nose.
Your beauty glitters like gold;
They say not all that glitters is gold,
But you're a glittering gold yourself.
I am an iron filling.
You're a magnet;
You've magnetized my mind,
Like the yellow sun
Twists the head of a sunflower,
And turns it into its directions
In the phototropism of your diamond teeth...

Don't resist my love advances for you,
Like some African kings resisted
The coming of the white man;
Surrender to my love advances,
Like the converts accepted
To be martyred at Namugongo Shrine.
Anyadwee, do you hear my love flute?
Daughter of the Moon,
Do you hear me whistling my hands,
Making you my love confession?

Hurry up, down
The bed of my heart,
And clean up the mess of life;
Colonize and loot my golden heart,
Like the colonial masters did.
I love you like African rulers love thrones,
Like some women love money.
Every queen needs a king;
Be my queen, I be your king...

Please, I beg:
Come into my hollow heart,
Fill up the blank space,
Keep me in your prison,
And deny me access
To the forests of women
Outside the gate of my heart;
Let your love abduct me
Like Joseph Kony
And Museveni's love affairs. 
Draw me to the altar of love,
And burn your love incense
Into my gazelles of nostrils.
Some fall in love, others fall out of love,
But keep me in the custody of your love.
My feet were restless for ages,
Like dry season he-goats,
Searching for my missing rib,
But now that I have got you,
Never will I fall in love again,
Let alone looking any further;
So, give me a reason to live
Without your love defining
he meaning of my life,
O the Daughter of the Moon.


Your righteous disorders
Break my heart;
Cowards are brave
With guns in the hands,
In your bleeding ancestral lands.
You once blamed the white man,
For auctioning your black children,
In the plantations of overseas,
Down the Mississippi River,
But at this moment of silence,
I bow my head in crying shames,
And salute your bright follies,
For you can't weep nor feel;
Your heart is blunt and numb,
You can't feel your own shames,
You can't blame yourself,
You who call yourself
The Mother of all Mankind,
For selling your own children
Down the running Nile River.
I am ashamed of you calling me
Your beloved cultured son.

Your righteous evil
Gouges out the eye of humanity.
You brave cowards!
Cowards are brave
With tools in the hands.
The world is a webbed cage;
We're mere flightless birds,
With shortcut wings,
With unheard birdsongs,
With blunted tongues:
Only unheard echoes of dirges.
The bond of the nations
Is impotent like castrated bulls,
And can't fertilize a single peace;
All she does best is sit back,
And watch the new faith
Of modern slavery
Trump over the guiltless humanity.

Your rising darkness
Overshadows me
With clouds of heart pain,
For the bullets in the heads
Of children, men and women
That's what cowards do!
Strong men don't fight wars,
But against wars rather,
Not for injustice,
But against injustice...
Where are your men,
With pairs of buttocks on their chests,
Who fought against the scramblers?
Where are the men
With thick heads and hearts,
Who stood still and looked
Apartheid in the eyes
And loudly and boldly said no?
And where are the brave men
Who returned the cultural loots
From the white man's land?
Are there no more brave men
With such chests, heads and hearts
In this land of black slavery?
I stand tall against your wiping arms! 
Africa, if you are my mother,
Then don't call me your son anymore.
Your name is my crying shame,
Your remaining children are assassins,
Power hungry and money thirsty;
Your human markets are full
With human commodity.
Your back-wounds will never heal,
As you preach life but kill.


The pearl still bleeds well,
The futile flag still flies
In the gun-smoked air;
Crawling and weaning
From aftermath colonial breasts,
They said a baby that stands
Could now be given hard foods
Like bones and nails to chew.
The false teeth fall off,
But the pearl still bleeds well,
Flag still follows the cross,
And the head that wears the crown
In the womb of the realm,
Counting his hundredth birthday;
Puppets still play the clowns.
The pearl still bleeds well:
Technical know who
Overshadows technical knowhow.
Chest bones are still visible
From thousands miles away;
They still pluck the guns
To play the mother drum
As they lick the national cakes
Flowing down the stems
Of their overeaten hands.
The pearl still bleeds well;
Refugees in camps are okay
With the meager meals a day.
Nothing to worry about here:
Let the world look the other side
Like they always do
When fires of slavery spark off here.
Let them not worry at all;
It is just the beauty
I read in their faces
As River Nile flows back
To its source in Lake Victoria.


Five foolish virgins, once upon a time,
Sent to dry grains, to dry wet grains;
Five foolish virgins wisely did combine,
Spread the grains, couldn't see the rains.
(Couldn't see this could bring some pains)

Cloulds, dark and pregnant, soon came,
Grains on the bare rocks, the girls with some boys,
The rains came with furious sword and flame,
They played hide and seek, sowing seeds with toys.
(Fish love, blind love! O little coys)

The eldest of all had the strongest voice,
A voice to make all play far way;
The little girls had but no other choice,
But to follow where the corpse would go play.
(At the end of the day, we all must pay)

Off to play, out to play, little fellows,
With those heathen cowboys, young and gay,
Friendly matches matches in death-rows,
We little'uns gotta lot of games to play.
(One frog spoils the whole water source, pray!)

Rap! Rap! Were the legs of rains on the grounds,
Washing grains for food far away.
Tap! Tap! Were the rains with silly sounds,
Wetting grains of girls in the broadday.
(Since twelve O'clock, the girl still did play)

Ngio! Ngio! Were the grains on the bald rocks,
Dried enough, brittle, to be collected,
But these rains cut like the teeth of mattocks.
Rok! Rok! Were the rains, soon started.
(Two O'Clock, the girls still well played)

Pat! Pat! With their long snakes of ropes,
Little good girls still skipped so high,
Their heads touched and troubled rainsdrops
From the blankets of the world in the sky.
(Four O'clock, the good girls still skipped by)

Wak! Wak! More incessant rains soon begun,
Still good girls in the rains played too much,
And back forth, they couldn't anymore run,
O these rains, nothing could ever touch!
(Six O'Clock, good girls still played in a rush)

Tac! Tac! Hailstones soon started to pour,
Cold like death, they really did fall,
Striking to startle someone to remember;
O Akumu soon remembered, reminded them all.
(Too late to hurry; grains gone to rains call)

Down, down, bend down, virgin girls;
In your Calabashes, in your woven baskets,
Pick the wet grains before the nightfalls;
No Calabashes? No baskets? Use your pockets.
(No pockets? Rush back home like Newton's rockets)

Good girls, run before the end of the rush hour,
Mother's pacing like her house's burning;
Run to the best of your youthful power,
Chase the day! Keep your worlds turning
(Till father's fury and fire stop burning)

Empty handed, Kwet! Kwet! The girls returned;
Except Akumu, they'd all got a dirty trick:
That some bad boys their baskets overturned,
Some bad boys, like monsters, ugly and black.
(Sleep with your mother-in-law under water, bubbles strike back)

Father's got lies-tester, he couldn't believe,
Whip swung in his right hand, ready to swish;
`Little minds do little deeds,` mother gave him a relief;
She wanted his fury and fire to be off-switch.
( Mother's love plays big games in the fury pitch)

Here, father's fury and fire boiled greater!
Little virgins, we're all players at best,
But for your mother's pity, you'd see whip better!
We all must admit truths for the sake of the jest.
(Duty at hand,  hands on duty than the rest.)

Go gentle, father, go gentle and cozy;
whips don't whip out the wrongs.
Wrongs, like spilt milk, can't be collected, worse when tipsy.
Hear me, Akumu, hear my wounded songs!
(We overdid overdose of our rights for too long.)

Father, forgive us, just go gentle;
Mother, I take refuge behind you, speak for us, speak!
We met some good demons with cattle,
And really overplayed that hide and seek.
(Little did we know our mud-walled house over leaks.)

We met devils face to face in the wild;
Promised to marry us after the sweet taste,
But our hearts now yearn for more, wilt with guilt,
Because the devils surly won the test.
(And here, lost sheep stand to embrace the bitter taste.)

Yes, little girls, the devil really tempts,
But, you see to be tempted is not to sin;
Only you wrought my heart with contempts,
`It is written` would have made you win!
(Once the angels sin, twice the devils win.)

The devil tempts feeble hearts and wins,
But mother's love wins twice with forgiveness.
Father's heart, a chasm where fire oft burns,
Soon is healed by a touch of loveliness.
(When fire catches water, fire dies.)

Go, my invirgin girls, next time be careful;
Don't die for your unknown desire:
Be heedful, be punctual, be helpful,
For your mother's love has extinguished my fire.
(Fury and fire end in mother's love's desire.)

1 comment :

  1. 'Africa' 'The Pearl' and the ballad and other longer ones are excellent and powerful portrayal of a lost sense of the dismayed world by a bruised heart. Congrats the poet and his worthy pen!


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