Yesterday, foes said,
I’m the marrow of tomorrow
shattered at the village square
where dry skulls of fallen dreams
are used as drums by blind beggars.
Friends said, I am the black smoke
from the firewood of fate
that was dispelled into oblivion
to cling to void air of nothingness.
E’en the elders said,
I’m the forbidden fruit
rejected by the molars of the squirrel
and must be banished to the evil forest
to be immortalised by stale stones.
Then, I was treated like an aged mortar
whose tender hymen was defiled by the pestle of time
and yet did not gestate any good.
I was looked down upon like a barren hope
whose dreams can’t germinate greatness
e’en on the addition of fertilizers of patience
and waters of grace.
I’m the billowing flute
whose note whispers progress
to the aspirations of drunk sluggards.
I am the mellifluous requiem
that exiles sorrows to the tomb
where pain is embalmed forever.
I am the sieve of justice
that separate shafts of lies
from wheats of truths.
I am the balm
from the factory of care
that relieve aches of warring-kings.
I am the present gestating
in the clandestine uterus of today
so as to procreate a better tomorrow.
I’m simply me.