Lakai Saadiq III
We know not what it is,
Yet we scrape up ourselves against its walls,
Temper with its scrolls and tip toes where it crawls.
We know not how it’s seems,
Yet its emissions are forced on our skins,
Chiseled on our memories and on our hearts they are pinned.
We know not how it syncs,
Because we can barely forge its signature.
In its nature,
It nurtures the art of reconnecting torn branches of our family trees,
Concocting a remedy,
mending sequences,
sequels and soliloquies Of seasons that change terrains to migrate as circles that rearrange,
With an intentions that remains the same.
Elysium watches us from afar as the winds of Samsara approach.
Gathering a memory to a people growing forgetful of themselves and theirs.
A people meandered by a designed suffering,
tempered by tempos of time and hypnotized by death.
A nation once connected by pulse,
Now its pulse, an impulse drawn drearily down humanities drain.
Our source of life,
lingering at a deathbed for only a few who could still hear our pedagogues speak from the ground,
Our Harold.
Wonderers of the sky,
Divers of life as nimble birds of flight,
with tunnels of the afterlife chambered on their sight.
Fore-telling us of these pockets of wonder.
Dikgetse tsa bakganni ba maru a a bokete,
bo montsamaisa bosigo, badupi ba dinaledi.
Dikgetse di ilaneng le boteng jwa magodimo,
disenololang diphiri tsa bokamoso, maloba, maloba a maloba.
Pockets for children of the wind to blow a navigation of their fate and retrieve,
An ancient path way within dreams.
Caved in river banks and sunk at the very depth of our hearts.
Grounded on grounds with wishful wishes wishing we could feel how it feels to be breathe shallow breaths, resuscitated on the ocean gusts.
They too lie there,
On oceans bed,
The walls we scrape ourselves on,
The scrolls our eyes crawl on,
And emissions our skins are forced on.
Wishing we could regenerate our degenerating minds, kept in custody.
Our Pedagogues, ditaola.
