Children of Mahabali

a poem

give my kingdom for an iker of lamb

of the man who spares the living

yield my shield, my iron and steel

for the words of he who is giving —

were his back to break on palm leaves and ash

i’d carry his weight in sorrow

so remember me in times far gone by

as that which would favor misfortune —

now wet with my tears a statue of clay

for the man who is cut from cotton

confer my land, my wealth and my hands

to the dream that is best not forgotten —

were his heart to split from a shelling of lead

i’d cradle his head in honor

to the lives lost in the labor of chains

and the truth which is often misspoken—

then bury my pride and see through the eyes

of those without their rightful body

give my time, my value and mind

for the rights i simply embody—

were her lungs to fill in a river’s embrace

i’d lift her body in pity

for the martyrs marked by the boiling of skin

whose cause reached a brave new tomorrow