Weep child, please.
Pray thee weep and listen not
To the renowned legend of old
Pleading to the contrary,
For that was then, an ancient legend
Of times probably dissipating for aye.
Mourn the loss, of thy cloak of heritage rich,
Squandered and pillaged beyond salvage’s reach,
By disrepair, treading in peril annihilation’s course.
While corrupted-evil, that fabric long consuming
Permeates thy garment’s threads, now bare,
Thus maintaining neither the fabric nor yarn … once grand.
In irony, the continuous passage of time
Assistance, appears to lend this disintegration,
For all adornments hard earned
And accolades acclaimed gigantic in term,
Fall off one after the other in quickened pace.
As ye calamity’s raiment encounter.
Howl, rend thy robes, don sackcloth,
Ashen thy face … weep.
Alas… belongs the past, in times past.
And now thy state tattered and tarnished
Sustaineth neither thy hapless present
least the dim hope of a future bleak.
The efforts of the stalwart past vain appear,
The present ordinarily as sustenance
the leap into the future support should.
Yet this scaffold, flimsy in substance
Its every framework plagued, crashes
Failing the future, assailing the past…
Lament aloud, lest thy forebears hear,
Seeing also thy long-suffering rush to thy aid,
Maybe saving the land , from perdition and despair
Thy heritage, from dishonour and scorn
By some miracle of old … if not, child
Yemsodu Copyright 1995
Posted January 17, 2012