|
| |
The Man Who Carried the Flame
(A Poetic Prophecy)
He walked not with crowds, but with silence.
A hush clung to his steps like a prayer.
The wine of the world he did not drink—
He stored his storms in chalices of fire.
The daughters of dust followed him not for touch,
But for something they could not name—
The way the stars bowed when he passed,
The way his shadow did not crawl.
He wore no crown, yet kings feared his glance.
He spoke no miracles, yet time obeyed his breath.
He bore a flame—hidden, ancient, clean—
Unlit by lust, unfed by want.
His hands had never struck,
Yet his presence broke empires.
His eyes were not soft,
Yet the broken found shelter there.
They asked him, “What god do you serve?”
He answered, “The one within,
Whose temple I guard with fasting flame
And unbroken bread.”
And still the women wept when he passed—
Not for his beauty, but for their own mirrors.
He showed them the hunger they fed in vain,
And the feast they had never tasted.
He was a man.
But more than man—
A keeper of thrones unseen.
The lion in winter.
The sword that sleeps.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
|
|