Mother do we rue that the bird of destiny
is coming too late, that it is no shortcut to fate?
That there can’t be reason in so many
wasted seasons? If only meagre harvests
can be called a taste of success? But I
do not regret these furlongs upon furlongs.
As if you can call the tests of time, our exercise
of profound strength. We can still be children, young and
vibrant, as we can be mothers and fathers
nurturing and caring; as if we didn’t know
we were the first orbs that set the fire going…
the ellipse of time. That even the universe mirrors
our faces as we become new earths in its habitable
zones. How do we realise our mission in a
concoction, a contraption, of too much evil?!
Do we find resoluteness in our patience
despite the bird that never seems to come?
Should we see that this evil of Man…
is so evil that it even cuts off the sacred
Masonic migration of animals, from the
routes of their redemption. So evil is Man
that he sought to waylay each fold of our
fraternity and ancestry from their divine triumphs
and tear us apart to confound us. So, must we
only become shadows of ourselves like them?
Just because evil wants to rein our integrity
and intrepidity in, with its chicanery and treachery!
But will we ever relent Mother to such enervation,
and become mere men like them?
montes-musings.blog 