When we choose

We will all follow the road
that has been blown in time
we will follow the dust of the Zulus
the Kintes whose hands felt separation,
one day we shall find the happy lands
the beautiful accents of being foreign
while being fortified by immortality.

We will follow the ropes tied from there
our legs shall no longer be made by dear
our hearts will break all the will
tied to the ancient host of the beginning.
One day when they gather their roses in an ashtray of silence
we will all lie in the wooden box
in another lockdown, not to be seen by the sun
forever

Ruddapoet