That's the poem written after the night of my mother took its step.
The evening approached,
Then your passport authorized
To the worlds beyond the stars
To which you solely travel
Round the sun in its fierce flames
That repels my tongue from licking your love.
You swim through the vacuum.
Where your ears abstain from the call of my help
Or where my eyes abstain from the call of your kindness.
Then far beyond the home of the sun,
Deep behind the mountain never seen
You land in the valley of the invisible.
There, where I stand, I wave my hands,
But your eyes dazzled by the welcoming function.
Seeing you turning around my side,
I make an impromptu articulation,
But your ears filled with the 'feel free' utterances.
I see your body adapting the strange world.
I still stand, till I hear the voice of reunion.
I still gaze for a gestured invitation.
Yes I see and I continue seeing you.
Indeed my heart sees and my heart hears.
My passport is in process, after it is done,
It is like a drop of water on a hotplate.
And so do all those that breath.
Poetry by Richard Chongo
Read 666 times
Written on 2006-04-24 at 17:26
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OH MOTHER!
OH MOTHER!The evening approached,
Then your passport authorized
To the worlds beyond the stars
To which you solely travel
Round the sun in its fierce flames
That repels my tongue from licking your love.
You swim through the vacuum.
Where your ears abstain from the call of my help
Or where my eyes abstain from the call of your kindness.
Then far beyond the home of the sun,
Deep behind the mountain never seen
You land in the valley of the invisible.
There, where I stand, I wave my hands,
But your eyes dazzled by the welcoming function.
Seeing you turning around my side,
I make an impromptu articulation,
But your ears filled with the 'feel free' utterances.
I see your body adapting the strange world.
I still stand, till I hear the voice of reunion.
I still gaze for a gestured invitation.
Yes I see and I continue seeing you.
Indeed my heart sees and my heart hears.
My passport is in process, after it is done,
It is like a drop of water on a hotplate.
And so do all those that breath.
Poetry by Richard Chongo
Read 666 times
Written on 2006-04-24 at 17:26
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