Drift

Where hopes finally crawl,

The waters are living,

bloodied by bleeding leech.

Sinking sands,other grounds

Bruise the stones, on the heart.

Adorn, the fungi infects the stems looking into the future.

Lamb rebel against,

scissors of the throat’s scripts.

[Ngima machiek ma wan go

Chalo gi pot yath malwar

Chalo gi oboke matop

Ret piyo….]*

Translations:

The short life that we have,

Like a falling leaves of a tree

That which rots and decays

…so hasten.

The leaves shed their tongues

Glory are the veins that feeds the humors unsung.

Shades peel the casks,

Where dhows break their keel, floats the racks

Noose hang, and knots slowly drops.

Heavy are the lowered anchors far from the berth.

The last roes, raft neither.

The yoke burden, onslaught an ox on the fallow,

Can lambs sly a fox clothes?

Wolves marry wild-not broth?

That which erects, weeps and seed and dies out.

Walls who write, and weep and barren, shall crowd?

The pebbles boil war,

fury when they claw tooth with chariots.

Hecklers spur, justice.

A sycamore breathes, warm mist.

Samsonite rape of the locks

Field solicit where seed soak

Roots have bitter Job’s feet

At the plot of agony,

conflicts the author and the pen.

Robes murk,

Gulf drifts, moonstone thrives.

The idiom but bread crusts

Touch on the lamenting keys, bars par drifts.

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