A command: “Thou shalt send them to the sands.”
Thoughts abused. One tower collapsed: earth’s language became confused.
The second one fell; we ran to reverse the revenge narratives.
“For the innocents, pray; we’ll slay more.
Then, we’ll both have Peace . . .”
Life’s meaning? Consult the sage;
she instructed we turn the page past the easy definition of “just returns”-
on other lines, it’s defined with terms like “charity” and “empathy.”
But with red rage blurring . . it’s hard to read . . .
The sage said, “To know nine is to know nothing of ‘yours’ or ‘mine;’
we’re all of one.” But, the aftermath: subtract abstractions,
we’re left with none:
no common sense, no rational explanations to convince,
no true peace or tolerance before or since.
One world of several lands and minds,
too many ideal fantasies, but no time to discuss reality;
the Dream’s imperiled. Scream for “Unity;”
combine self-absorption and the ability
to rant about those ignorant ones, unknown.
May a mystic wind remind: Nine is not the end of the line;
strange but strong restless strings tie us all to one another.
Revenge, pushed on its bent track, sent to never-end will come back.
And at the finish: Humanity’s race won’t be won, but gone to none.
(Mr. Harambee Grey-Sun is a poet who resides in Northern Virginia.)