In the Cold Pallor Of Night
O Lord, I bring not calf nor my first child,
My palms are empty and my pride is hollow.
Leaves have fallen with this winter that has walked
the face of this earth to find a hermitage in me,
and I seek solely thy grace to till my barren soul.
These lips know hundreds of hymns of wretch,
This tongue confesses how life is a tangram of a thousand ends,
These eyes harbour a lake of salt
and each teardrop is a prayer you already know.
Every leaf browns at the feet of its mother
As every parched heart falls at the feet of its father-
These feet know millions of miles,
My knees are heavy and I fall before thee;
O potter of the universe, patch my heart;
Patch this heart every time my faith leaks,
Rid this querulous mind of the fear of contentment
And keep it chaste from the lust for coin.
Free me from this chess of mindless might,
Free me from these weevils poisoning the bumper crop of global peace;
There is a hopelessness sucking on the succulence of my life
And this melancholy of mine is of a harp before an empty throne.
The lantern of my heart sits devoid of flame;
O sower and reaper of breath,
May these last ounces of breath buried in this breast
surrender before thy feet the mayhem within my graceless life.
Copyright © Kunda Chamatete | Year Posted 2017