I have fought the windy thoughts,
but they returned nought. Better the burnout fades,
and the words are remembered,
not to be martyred, by example.
She was a shallow thought, her life a luminous sight,
A heart of gold with no space for this soul,
A smile that lights the face well,
An intellect exciting my enthusiasm.
I pass on with no chase in return,
For what good is a chase,
When the chase is not reciprocal?
Bellow the strings loud, distort the sound,
A bridge too far away,
With paths hidden from eyes that do not keep track.
I would run,
I would be done,
I would be there if my way was found through this wayward sound.
Hark, hear the voice cry out, the silence is loud
And we remember it well. The pen is angry,
But the fingers do not clutch,
Theirs is the land of waste where words once ruled,
And pain was the shame that set the world a mould;
A youthful hack with so much to learn,
Undone by bitter hollows that still burn.
- 22/12/17, Ngatimoti