I Have Lived Before the Clocks
I have lived before the clocks were wound,
When silence spoke and stars made sound.
My hands once etched in temple stone,
The prayers of kings, yet slept alone.
I knew the scent of burning leaves,
In Vedic dawns, beneath fig trees.
I sang where Nile met desert wind,
A priest of fire, a soul thick-skinned.
In Rome, I wore the thinker’s face,
In chains of thought, not bound by place.
In robes of law or sacred thread,
I judged the living and the dead.
A scroll, a blade, a feathered pen—
Each life I bled and breathed again.
In Florence I lit minds like flame,
But died unknown, without a name.
In shadowed courts of Genghis' reign,
I walked as ghost through steppe and plain.
I sought the Truth in every creed,
But never tamed the soul's deep need.
Through monks and maps, through ink and war,
I crossed the seas to distant shore.
Each time reborn with memory dim,
Yet haunted by the silent hymn.
Now here I stand, the circle tight,
With one last fire to birth the night.
I’ve seen the rise and fall of men—
But will I walk this Earth again?
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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