Dad, you are my running mate: A poem 

You were no weaver, but you wove my imagination 

You were the precursor of my sacred nation 

I think, walking in your footsteps is a dream 

the prolific vegetation with which these paths teem 

And we were always father-son, son-father 

that God planned and we’d rather 

I know the fault lines of history made the earth quake 

And the river of humanity was awoken in our wake 

We had our deserts in lifetimes, often, parched were the sands 

But we always had the Promised Land in our glands 

I know the back and the feet are always posterior 

that is because the motives of the wicked are always ulterior 

Lion-souls are soft, bulls are aloft, mercurial is faith 

There is no daunting the warrior knocking at the gate 

I have picture-frames of love against all the encountered hate 

But I know we’ll win as long as I have you as my running mate