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Religious Memory Poems | Religious Poems About Memory

These Religious Memory poems are examples of Religious poems about Memory. These are the best examples of Religious Memory poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Rhyme |

Simply time to go, a little brother's lamentation

Too hard for me to say goodbye
For all apparent reasons why
Even though we all know it must be
Each heart will someday stop the beat
When the rhythm of life, and silence, finally meet
Yet I always seem so surprised 
To find that death is part of life 
Knowing that regret, will now haunt my every rhyme 
The specter called "if only", will inhabit every line.
Wish I could arbitrate a deal to have gained a little time
Just one more talk with Sissy, to ease my guilty mind. 
And the sun now sets on my regrets
I gamble on time and lose each bet
Thinking I'll move on and yet, 
here I set . . .
Wishing for one more time 
One more pun
One more smile 
That will never come 
If I could just recall the things you said that mattered to you most.
Memories un memorized
That now I'll never know
Years of conversation when I didn't pay attention
Times I should have said I love you 
And somehow failed to mention
Then when you tried to tell me you felt your time was drawing near
Your selfish little brother pretended not to hear.
Even when you did your best,  and tried to let me know
You'd made your peace and you were ready, and that for you . . . 
It was simply time to go

Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw | Year Posted 2015

Details | Free verse |

Moments In Time

The sweetest sounds of burning trees
A gentle stroking in the breeze
The calm has lasted past the storm
Cloudy visions, Satan’s roar
Too many sights have passed my way
A time found only in the haze
The softest screams are running bare
My aching bones creak as I stare

You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark

The battle’s started at the end
No one is coming to repent
The sinners grab their wine from prey
No judgment calling here to stay
The sport is reckless to be told
The one is laughing at his souls
It falters nowhere to be sure
The power grows forevermore
Like a spirit in the wind
I have no say in where you’ve been 
But cross the line to come to me
And pay the price for ecstasy

You walk a distance towards me
The fall’s eternal, can’t you see?
I’m a memory in your heart
I whisper to you in the dark. 

Copyright © John Paluszek | Year Posted 2013

Details | Munaajaat |

Tell Me

I'm lost hurt and angry
Why did you take his life
I want, No I need to know
Tell me, Tell me why
I deserve to know

Haven't you done enough to him
What'd he ever do to you
He suffered his whole life
Suffered more than anyone deserved
Tell me, Tell me why you did it
I have a right to know

Why'd you let him born to them
Born to worthless parents
Parents who didn't care
They threw him away like garbage
Pawned him off on someone else
Tell me, Tell me why
Explain how you could do that

You gave him Polio
You let others treat him like disease
You took away the full use of his legs
You warped his hand and foot
Tell me, Explain to me why
I deserve to know

You let others think he was crazy
You let it go on for over year
You didn't stop it, Why
Tell me, Give me your reason
Answer me God, Help me to understand

You go and make matters worse
You gave him Cancer
You didn't give him a chance to fight back
You just jerked him away from us
Tell me, Tell me how
How you could be so cruel

How can others not question you
When others do it, It's murder
But when it's by your hand
It's your will, Their fate
Tell me, What makes you so different
Your no better than the demons knocking at the door

You heard me beg and plead
You know I'm not afraid to die
I was willing to carry it all for him
I was willing to take my Daddy's place
You didn't even let me say Goodbye
Tell me, Tell me why I couldn't take his place
Answer me God, you owe me that much


Copyright © Sabrina Niday Hansel | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |

The Family That God Gave to Me

The Family That God Gave to Me I think about the family, that God gave to me... And think about where they'll spend eternity! I think about the good times, that we've had. And the trials we've faced... Both good and bad! God helped us to overcome adversity together! And proved his faithfulness... Today and forever! He showed us the Godly path, that we should follow... And promised to be with us! Today and tomorrow! He's proven how much he loves us! And how much that he cares for us! Thank you my lord, for all you do! Where would we be? If not for you? You've proven yourself over and over again! Thank you so much, for being our friend! By Jim Pemberton

Copyright © Jim Pemberton | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...

(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Haiku |

Haikus About God: IV

God made all people
But some better than others?
Stop being silly.

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Epitaph |


Here lies the best Grandfather,
One who was very considerate.
Remembering him as a child,
I would sit on his lap.
He was a rare person indeed.
He was a colonel in the Army.
Also superlative of a gentelman.
Here lies the best grandfather,
May he rest in peace.

Copyright © Sarah Cassleman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

Book of Memories

When I'm weary, tired, when life is
rough and rocky - I look through
the book of my memories. Hidden
among the masses, one shines above
them all. All my troubles fade
into small pebbles bore down from
solid stone. From this one memory -
I rise above my own self-doubt and
travel into the realm of the 
future. Into a bridge built of
stepping stones. As I reach the
center, I fall to my knees,
trembling from it's greatness and
divine hope. Here, I gain the
strength of loves I have known.
As I reach the end of the bridge - 
I am forced to look back and see
the presence that walked with me.
From this shadow of a memory, I
shall always know the comfort of
goodness and hope. Giving me the
strength of a love more solid than
stone. Yes, I often turn the pages
in the book of my memories.

Copyright © Karen van Wyk | Year Posted 2014

Details | Couplet |

A child's plea

Dirty rotten scum to take the life of an innocent one torn away from my childhood but not yet thrown into adulthood you've given me a life of pain certain to only knowing, that never again, will the days be the same but I have found my new freedom here, within these mighty walls known as Gods kingdom

Copyright © Denise Hopkins | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |

Spirituals and Drums

My ancestors walking in the night
using oil lights and moonlight for guides
while being instructed to Wade in the Water
to camouflage their scents like disguise

The Sweet Chariot awaited 
so they could ride away
Harriet was a soldier
and it wasn't an option to be caught during the day
That's the same mentality Nat Turner had when he sang
Steal Away

They would follow the drinking gourd
so all were in accord to go north
The Gospel Train was coming
and at the end of the journey
was a fine reward
Freedom was coming
and it was a long time coming and
they walked until they heard freedom bells ringing
and I still hear their tired footsteps running

Thinking of My Darling Nelly Gray
Stolen from my arms a random September day
and eliminated our chances to run away together
No family ties, no love, no strength says the oppressor

Then I hear the drums beat in the darkness
giving me the hope of finally being free
Maybe I'll follow them this time on faith
on bended knee
There must be a place for me among the light
of this darkness
Among oppression, thieves, evil-doers
no thought on their conscience

Thank goodness for the safe houses that
supported our traveled distances
and for the conductors who bore witnesses
and may God have mercy on the souls who
were against this
and on those who chose to forget this sh@!

I still hear crying in quilts of safety 
because I know that the burden was heavy
to be at the mercy of nature and patrol men
catching run-away slaves for money
Some did it bare feet with freedom ahead of this
loved induced journey and they made it
So all that bull about how your life is hard
just stuff it in an envelope and save it

Copyright © humble b | Year Posted 2012

Details | Sonnet |

Kingdom Builders

July 31, 2013

Kingdom Builders

Holy Holy Holy I must say to all.
Long day hard day I am with you.
Hot day cold day it is for me too.
Days months or years you I call.

You have displayed my visual doll.
Multitudes of truth seeds you grew.
Spoken for as spoken words abrew.
I grant you the light in that dark hall.

Never say never!
Never look back!
I am yours forever!
I am with no lack.

I am always the hands of  filters,
Observing my Kingdom Builders.

(C) Copyright 2013  Ann Rich

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |

She Cried Holy

She Cried, “Holy!”
By Curtis Johnson

It amazes me that she came to mind after some 50 years.
She lived far back across the fields, alone with not a care.
She was laughed at and talked about; some were afraid of her.

No one was ever harmed by her, and everyone stayed out of her way.
Even when they avoided her, it was difficult to escape the sound of her voice.
Up close or across the fields, we heard her so clearly and sincerely crying, “H o l y!”

She was not sociable, and perhaps even a bit eccentric.  Though religious, she was not  a Mother Teresa type of lady.  I do not remember a smile from her toward anybody for any reason.  Was she out of her mind as some suggested?  Was she a voice crying in the wilderness?  Was she on a divine assignment from God?  Was she a saint or holy person?  I most assuredly did not know then, and I am presently content to let God be the judge of that.  But she had no doubt about her God being Holy, because with unrelenting commitment, she cried, “H o l y!”

It’s clear to me that at some point, God became the center of her every affection.  Indeed, she deemed it her mission to proclaim the Holiness of God  to a needy people. So without refrain, fear, or hesitation, she simply continued to shout,       “H o l y!”

She was unconventional, unsophisticated, unconcerned, and unlike anyone I have ever known.  She cared not about what people said, thought, of felt about her.  She was fearless, and nothing mattered except her mission.  She was called the ‘sanctified lady’; but time after time, come rain or come shine, she paid them no mind, and she never ceased or declined.  She just cried, “H o l y!”

I never knew her name  or whatever became of her, but she was a small framed lady with a strong and deep sounding voice.  It’s the cry of her voice that brings my eyes to tears.  Without apology or regard for public opinion, from her home deep across the corn and cotton fields, we often heard her crying, “H o l y!”

I don’t recall anything else she ever said, nor anything else she ever did.  But I must say that if she was on a divine assignment,  God must have been pleased with her.  I suspect that it was a lonely and often cruel assignment causing pain and ridicule.  But she bore the pain; she had nothing to gain; her message was clear and plain; she refused to refrain. She certainly was not popular, and I don’t remember a friend she ever had.  But ever true to her task, from the depths of her soul, she cried, “H o l y!” cj09122015

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |


When evening shadows gather,
I often think of home.
And the old familiar place,
Where seven little children roamed.

The old house is gone now.
A new one stands in it’s place.
I wonder if the people living there
Can feel the Loving Grace.

That was once our humble home
We shared with Mama and Dad.
We lived, and loved, and laughed a lot.
What wonderful memories we have had!

Every evening when night fell,
Daddy called us to come inside.
We laughingly left the games we played
Of “Tag” or “Seek and Hide.”

He said, “Come on in children-“
“Supper’s ready…come to the table.”
Then he bowed his head and gave God thanks
For the fact that we were able…

To work, and play, and live and love,
And for His Amazing Grace to us.
We’ll never forget what they taught us-
Those two wonderful people we could trust.

“Blessed Lord, accept our thanks for these and all other blessings,”
He prayed, with tears in his voice.
And we children knew that he meant it.
What a great heritage they have left for us!

Someday soon now, our Father above
May come to the door and say,
“Come on in children-“
“Supper’s ready… come to the table.”
Oh! Won’t that be a happy day!

For when evening shadows gather,
It is right to think of Home,
And of going inside and closing the door,
Safe, and secure from all harm.

Copyright © Betty Butler | Year Posted 2016

Details | I do not know? |

The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims

The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims.

When hot lead tears the flesh of a 14 year old girl,

ripping through her skull,
leaving her to bleed out and die,

does Allah not recoil in horror,

to see His child whimper,
to see His daughter cry.

Where is the indignation,

the anger that often boils over and manifests itself as flags and books and videos are burnt in mass orgies of hollow piety,

where are the voices that scream so loud,
that denounce all but their own creed,

where are the men, the impotent men who crave for nothing more than their fascist egos to feed,

where are the voices that so loudly proclaim,
enemies here and enemies there, always quick to condemn,

where are those voices when the enemy walks amongst them.

14 year old Malala Yousafzai was shot in cold blood,

her crime?

Advocating the rights of girls to an education.

Shame on you, men of bigotry and men of cowardice.

Shame on you, silent and mute accomplices in this carnage.

Shame on me,
for my inaction,

Shame on us all,
who proclaim lofty ideals,

yet are conspicuously silent,

when a 14 year old girl is shot in the head,

by fascist fundamentalist bigots who only worship bullets of hot lead.

Not in my name!

Not in my name,
shall the cowardly men rain down abuse,

Not in my name,
shall the bigoted men light the communalistic fuse,

Not in my name,
shall Malala Yousafzai be shot in the head,

left to bleed out,
while countless mothers' tears are shed,

not in my name,
shall religious murderers,
be left to wander free,

not in my name,
for I dare all believers to open their eyes,
to see!

To see,
the innocence of a 14 year old girl,
wanting only an education,

as the men of the cloth,
prance around with their pathetic self-righteous indignation.

I write this today,
the anger raging in my veins,

yet I fear,

that I shall write more of this,

unless we stand up and say 'no more',

I fear that I shall be writing this again,

until we all,

reclaim the true principles of humaneness,

until we silence the voices of bigotry,
of rage,
of fanatical insanity,

I fear I shall be writing this again,


until the muck-ridden bile,
is not excised,

I shall continue to say,


Or else I shall have nothing,

but my unending shame.

(for Malala Yousafzai, 14 years old, in a critical condition after being shot in the head by the Pakistani Taliban, for her work as a young activist advocating the rights of girls to attend school)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Couplet |

Un grand pas vers le Bon Dieu

Sweet short round sadness in the mirror may grow;
He writes her name twice on the mind`s first snow;
It is the moment to find a joke and make her laugh;
If he holds his dreams and her hands ,that`s enough;
A smile of the kidness with each cup of tea, and soon
As brought by Fancy`s Fairy in the blond afternoon,
The taste of honey mealt in bitterness of broken glass;
The subtle drums in his ears violently might surpass
The horses`galoop at the purple banks of his veins ;
From the green empire, where eternal spring reigns
The romp`s steps of imagery in the Plato`s realm
Composing an ode of joy or a long lasting psalm:
Child dancing, playing with the joyous rain,
 Like Narcissus at the sides of the fountain.
That parfume of violets :her hair and her eyes
Tactile, fragile china, cold glass solitude lies
In their unwritten novel: everybody may choose
The thrill of dancing among the Greek statues;
The rustling of the two doves following Love`s call 
 In the hand of Light,with overflown tumult in one soul. 
The step towards his heart and quickly her stop;
Without the slightest hesitation, all muscles hope
 Ready to caught a falling star still hoping
The crystalline tear prolonged dropping
Transformed in advancing recollections through:
Two masters of slaves and two slaves ,thus sum two.

Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2012

Details | I do not know? |

MLK - 1929 - 1968

(January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)

they shot you down
all those years ago


your dream lives on
and always will

for though much has been
gained since you dreamed
your dream

there is much to fight for
and much more to struggle for

and much, much more
to fight for still

your dream resounds in
our hearts and we pledge 
this to you today
for though they shot you down
all those years ago on a memphis day
we shall overcome
this we do believe
deep in our hearts
we shall overcome

(for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | I do not know? |

The Tragedy of the Banished Revolutionaries

The Tragedy of the Banished Revolutionaries.

Epochs apart, yet,
bound by conscience,


Enduring the whispers of time,
through creeds professed,
sermons preached,
and a million sins confessed.


the essence,
of these banished revolutionaries,
is ceremonially muted by ritual,
and gleefully crushed under,
grandiose edifices,
that serve Religion Inc.

"And the meek shall inherit the earth",
an incendiary thought,
conveniently discarded,
for the pie in the sky that must be sought.

The tragedy of the banished revolutionaries,
whispers still,
for us to hear,
through the din of the cacophony of prayer.


The tragedy of the banished revolutionaries,
each day that we choose,
to shun the meek,
and mouth conscience-salving prayers,

for yet more silver,
and yet more silk.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |


I give my word a breath of life
and those who give me strife
I willingly do what needs to be done
and do not wish to be won
I smile a smile that lights up any face
and hope to never disgrace
I do what I am taught to do
and that my help would be true
I clam my words together
and hope times will never weather
I do have some faith in all matters
and things to reach with ladders
I hope for many things in heart
and I cherish everyone that is part 
I do know one thing is set
and with my life I would bet
I will hold true to my words
and make my world good towards

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |

When I'm Gone

When I am gone, and the next sunrise appears
Know that within your heart, I am very near
When the moon's glow, softly lights up the sky
I will visit in your dreams, just close your eyes

When the galaxy is full and you wish upon a star
Know that in your thoughts, I am not very far
When the rain softly falls, upon your cheek
The words, I love you, each drop will speak

Sitting in the silence, of your troubles and fear
It will be my voice to comfort your ear
When the wind gently blows, across your face
Know it is my kiss, for you to embrace

Search the clouds of each new day
I will send a message of love your way
When the waves crash, upon the shore
It will be me, knocking, from Heaven's door

When the seasons come, one by one
I promise, to never, leave you alone
Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall
I will be with you, through them all

With each season, much brought anew
Warmth, changing of colors, snow and dew
In each, I will be, for you to find
If ever I should, cross your mind

Let not one tear, fall from your eye
As I promise, never to say good-bye
Think not, we are separated, miles upon miles
Alive in Christ, we will meet again, in a little while

Written by: Donetta Harless
                    Monday, August 8, 2016

Copyright © Donetta Harless | Year Posted 2016

Details | Dramatic Verse |

Martyr and Sacrifice

Martyr and Sacrifice

Hold my hand as we're guided through the crowds. Today will be the day we part.
I'll be the martyr, if it means watching growing lives from far above.
You'll be the sacrifice for their growing smiles. As we promised.
Today we'll separate, but our lives will have been for naught. We did as we must and in great stride. I'd tell you I was sorry if I wasn't smiling and crying tears of happiness.
I wish not to see you cringe in fear as they take me under the weeping tree. You will live, but sacrifice your life.
As they tie the noose to my neck I yell to the heavens a ever fleeting good-bye and a whisper I love you.
Now it's time to let go of my hand, my love. This is out last day together, for at dusk we part.
I'll be the martyr to all we held dear and what we believe in. I'll be watching the growing lives from above, even if I am forgotten.
You will be the Sacrifice for their grieving tears and emotional smiles.
As I gasp at the setting sun, and breathe my last, I shut my eyes and smile.
Oh, good-bye my love the sacrifice wept. I shall not forget this.

Copyright © Marcedies Rhodes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |

Walking the Streets of Gold

Father’s Day is near, and it brings tears to my eyes.
My Dad is in Heaven now, and hears my cries.
He was a humble pastor with a heart of gold,
Always putting others first, if truth be told.

My Dad and Mom both set godly examples for us children.
Parents like that are one in a million.
My Dad loved to laugh, and have a new adventure.
His visits to me in New Hampshire I will always treasure.

We went boating, swimming, and sightseeing for thrills.
He loved the White Mountains, with a view to kill!
We spoiled him with lobster, steak, and fancy cuisine.
He loved floating in our pond, and being treated like a king!

My Dad devoted his life to winning souls for Christ,
Spreading God’s Word about the Saviour’s ultimate sacrifice.
I have to remember on Father’s Day to look up to the glorious sky.
Our faithful preacher is now walking the streets of gold with the Man on High!


Copyright © Brenda McGrath | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |

Forgot to Run

Lost and never found
She lays there beaten and bound
Tears are long dried
Rejected and denied
Her heart damned to hell
Her screams silent as well
Left alone
Bleeding out
Her helpless soul
Lost all breath to scream
Silent without a need
Growing cold with every breath
Losing sight
Its time for death
Gave up
Lost her way
Her thoughts
They never stay
Now cold
Frozen and numb
Growing old
Time has come
Mind fading
Forgot to run.....

Copyright © Arra Black | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |



Africa is the burial chamber of many,
Millions of men and women rested in peace,
The deepest hole full of important bones,
The bones of Homo sapiens are in the graves.
 It is the cradle of humankind.

Africa the sepulcher of our ancestors,
“Rolihlahla Nelson Mandela, Emery Patrice
Lumumba, Julius Kambarage Mwalimu Nyerere,
Jomo Kenyatta, Kwame Nkrumah, Samora
Moises Mashel, and Prince Louis Rwagasore.”
Africa! The black coffin for all dies in Africa.

Africa the mausoleum of humanity,
I wish to be buried in Africa only,
The angels are walking free in Africa,
The guardians are guarding the graveyards
Day and night.

Africa! My last resting place, your burial place,
Our burial chamber
The last resting place of many kings:
“Shaka Zulu, Haile Sellasie, pharaohs, Samore
Toure, Mswati II, Tenkamenin, Mansa Musa,
Sundiata Keita, Oba Ewuare, Sonni Ali, Osei
Kofi Tutu, Sumanguru kante, Ngongo lutete,
And Ezana Axum.”

Africa! The mausoleum of many messenger-
“Isaiah Mloyiswa Mdliwamafa Shembe, Simon
Kimbangu, and Jean Mwambi Mulaya Kadima.”
You are our grave, oh Africa.
All will pass there.

By Alfonso II Warally. Chris

Copyright © Alfonso II Warally Chris | Year Posted 2017