Ironic that an island thirsts for water and
tragic is the question pondering if anyone cares.
Oh we care. Scores of us
rush to give, love, ameliorate others
rush to judgment, sifting hearts, pontificating
lies on behalf of a true God. Yele.
Woe, woe kacks the frigate atop a branch in a withered mangrove.
Behind her weep sores and flesh. Her north horizon swells with the
wayward chacks of mocking birds while some of us scurry
to bring gourds to the chafed. Some of us watch. Yele.
Licorice black faces caked white with ash, but perhaps
not white enough to stay the sermons of the self-righteous,
spewing venom in place of mercy, in place of love. Yet somehow
the captive voices are heard through crevices of light and sound. Yele.
How can a cry spring the least to do the most and still snarl
posturing tongues? It is all a test of morals and fiber and such.
A decathlon of exercises challenging resiliency and id behaviours.
Humanity is only human when we respond to inhumane situations.
© Asani Charles 1/14/10
Life in Print 