So tomorrow all decisons are made by the lots,
for chances are but none;
it is but an old ritual, the division of inheritance
by the hand of fates
woven paths.
I call not my father for it is not for politics,
I but await the result
a soft tongue moves the hearth, but
not the sword or the
stone in it.
The spirits of the Me's lies dormant
am I to awaken them,
or to sit idly by watching the remnants
be turned to dust between
my fingers.
I do not - know nor wisdom - but the razor
which is in the center;
the fading memories of my ancestors,
they had so much hope
for us.
|