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Upon the heated lands of the village
Beside the gentle waters ,
Flowing from the eyes of Mother Earth.
Beneath the mountains there I sit.
Upon the soothing carpet of nature,
I draw my hope and inspiration.
For that is the only way I adore that which is within me.
My fingers yearn for the dirt it was made for.

I cry to the mountain of my fathers,
Seeking an audience at their banquet
But all I hear is a loud silence.
Dear fathers, my fingers yearn for the dirt it was made for.
I wail to the hearing of my mothers
But I’m met with loud laughs
The output of daily today gossips.

Time has come to give hope to the green leaf.
Give it a shade to harness it’s growth.
In my mansion of solitude
I create that which is not made yet.
But with no guidance I pack it into my tent.
Elders of our heritage!!!
Do we not see innovation is in shortage
Not because none exists, but none is natured.

The gateway to success stretches it’s arms wide
Let’s ride on the new tide
The tide of enhancing youthful skills.
The wave of generational innovation.
Our dear village hungers for a handshake with the youth.
Elders of our land,
Grant the green leaves a drink of empowerment.
For with mud our fingers are covered.

#THMpoetry © 2017

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Comments
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