Those who hear not
The sermon from graves
Should eavesdrop on Jawara’s
I hear a giggle-like roar
Unheard by salivating cats
Seated before a heavy lizard
Those who see not the womb
Of the ever heavy crystal ball
Should flip through Yesterday
They would hear songs
That make vegetables dance
There are tales in the atmosphere
Buried by the glaucoma
On eyeballs dressed in a lie
But mad is the dancer
To songs unsung
Dry is the moisture of a soliloquy
For we are dumb screamers
Will we hear tomorrow
*Muhibb Aslu, philosopher and poet, lives and writes from Minna, Niger State, NIGERIA
You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
About Kahlil Gibrain
Kahlil Gibrain (1883-1931) is one of the world’s most popular and best selling poets of all times. He was a Lebanese-American poet, philosopher, artist and writer. His writings are deeply prophetic (he actually has a book titled The Prophet 🙂 ) and deep. Google his poetry and if you get the opportunity, buy and/or read his books. His words are transforming if you let them sink. Now, let’s end this with a quote from him:
You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
There is a splintered street
Where dreams die at dawn
The gurgle of laughter stilled
In the unlikeliest of throats
There is a nascent irascibility that sends
Youth hurtling off the edge of this precipice
Called life. Death is not painful
For the dead. Only for the unfortunate
Living who sift through memories
Like voyeurs. Searching for something
Elusive – trying to wring warmth
From a blanket left in the sun
This street brings a schizophrenic wish
For voices that are not there
It breeds fluttering ghosts that
Flap wings in rib cages
the window shows us:
a thick fog…
we roll and find horror
but there’s more hiding
within than without
we bend our heads
The stars put out their lamps
Leaving the grey sky
The moon compensating, smiled meekly
A clear ball
Different from yesterday’s banana
I stayed an eternity with you
But just as my heart counted a second
The night rolled its mat
Bringing in the harsh reality of day.
(From Bring our casket home: tales one shouldn’t tell. Makurdi: SEVHAGE, 2012)