Under your feet, I have sworn to follow your trails
To follow your trails like a hunter in search for snails
I recall the lyrics you wrote under the mahogany
They were so filled with emotional letters
Egos of the gods, sages of our lost Lords
The battlefield was left blank with no wins
And I ask,
Where did our braveness lost it virginity to cowardice,
When we knew the shrine had predicted on our sweat beads?
Teach me the rhythms of your finger tips
Of the meandering of the river’s valley you crossed
The ego at the stream looks deserted
The canoe from the sea looks wrecking
And O’ when did the green leaves begin to wither,
When all are in merry of the days beyond obscurity?
Under your feet papa, I have learned the hymns of royalty
Upon the crossroads to the eastern shrine
I have learned to pay heed to the whispers of humble antelopes
The robes you left under the hut keep a stare at my forehead
The gourd you left under the palm tree has been filled with wine
What more is left papa?
I need only a sweat from your imprints
To let my tongue taste sour of the lion’s tail
You brought from the evil forest last night.
The Village Thinker © 2014