Temple of Words

What do the broken hearts do Do they die and wither away Like a tree cut down by a hired farmer Or do they shrink and become empty  Like a sun-dried skin, void of fluid? What do the broken hearts do? Do they become tamed under the legs of shame forever? Or do they, like a wounded warrior king, Take his own life to escape further humiliation? No a broken heart wander for a while, wondering What could have made her piercer pierce her But she heals, Oh yes, she heals From the rivering emotional drops Oh yes, the broken heart heals And lives and gain. Love does not let the broken heart die But makes the broken heart know  That there's someone out there to cherish her more. Now if you ask you What do the broken hearts do What will you avow?

In this market place, I stand Looking through minds Checking how lips moves As they sell goods Rice, like this was here, and beans, like that was there Cash in hand and purses robust And the breeze of progress passed through The market Blessing every soul and laughing silently loud I was that breeze that passed Listening to the music of give and take I was that breeze caressing the skins of women and men That breeze that raised the skirts of ladies And poured sand into the eyes of men That breeze that carried plastic bags miles away I was that breeze that heard the… but soon to die The noise came from somewhere there, I do not know where The sound of that deadly boon Plucked my ears from every corner But I heard it, when it began I heard it as it brought out Sango’s rage No, it was not Sango, it was death All death and all death It was men, it was men All men and all death It was science All pure but all death and all death I lingered upon every man’

From afar I gazed with my inner most heart  At the beauty queen     Of the lost kingdom of pride.                                                   There she stood with her serpentine heart,   Like a squirrel, caught in a trap,   She hoisted in the middle of her doomed heart  Speaking to regret.         Like dust being blown  By the breeze of the northern coast, Her thoughts were shattered in her mind,                            For her tree of dignity has been cut down   With that sharp axe of disgrace.   To the impossible future of her 12:00 life,                   Her mind travelled. Sailing backwards on the river of time, she snatched those Days of greatness and opened smile. Those days that are now buried in the middle of a dead mine She saw those times of a strong and decorated calabash. Those days her mom would speak With shoulder’s double, Those days she whined her waist with pride, While the virgin beads move  Towards the direction of her hi

Your hand So cold and this voice So low Is it that i cannot hear your laughter My ear being lost? Or is it that your voice has departed The journey and a new enroled? Why is your skin so stiffen? Is it that clay has come to stay? Oh life! Such a pain

Rain falls everyday Upon our heads as we walk-work Cold comes Sweat shuns But the heat of evil Strangles our necks Bomb blows Death drains

Let it blink -this one eye of mine If it stands still That means it's blind Blink please blink My lover, my eye, my life Please blink Please blink My love, don't go blind The creator You created this one eye- For me For me alone The creator, I beg of you Let my love not go blind

I killed an insect While in bed I killed it! Yes, I killed it! But what did the poor thing do? It walked upon my hair-street Tinkling me and scaring me Maybe it was a father Or oh! Perhaps a mother Searching for food for its children But I murdered it Oh!  How murderous of me!

Like any other day when my legs would run fast to my my sandy playground. Like any other moment under the watchful eyes of the sun when my eyes could only see things that were from the origin of man. Just like those days, like that day when my hands were covered in mud as I fondled them through some wet sand, from which I got my palms really dirty. There was one thing I was putting on, it was my slightly thick black and already dirtied pant. That black pant and others kept in a small basket placed on the floor of mama and papa's room were my playground suits. That was mama's thoughtful rule.  She was tired of it all, tired of continuously immersing her hands in dirty water like a fish having a hot bath in some overheated river and most especially tired of sweeping her tough palms through my rumpled and dirty clothes that have been subjected to harsh playing conditions. "You will not kill me, this child!" She would shout as soon as her sharp gaze fell on me