I have reached my destination; I trace calligraphies. My quill seems to pour its ink unto the banks of the Tanganyika Lake. The sacred place, to which from the other side of the frontier, I confined my boredom
Category: Poetry
Humanity
Political isms for sale
For somebody to make tale
Humanism is but a name
An echo in a crowded silence for fame
Is humanity to see?
Children wedded with misery
Sick and drunk of poverty
Refugees in their own land
The Myths
We feed from myths…
Myths against good and evil …
it is only a trap for humanity never to trust each other….
A trap for the naives
A myth is a tool only to manupulate
for it to operate it