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When I’ve gone
to the place
where my fathers’
have gone before me
and the last tribute
has been paid to my memory,
may my singing words
crack the silence with clanging echoes.
May the clanging echoes
excite starving eyes
and taut wrinkled eardrums—
both to awareness—
guiding them
to actions of liberations
yet to come.
May clanging echoes
wakeup sleeping souls suffering
uncertainties of tyrannical rule,
slobbering from political absurdities,
drooling from mouths of misguided evil
diagnostic odysseys—peddling false hope
to precariously lost wanderers.
May my clanging echoes echo ringing
bells of freedom that can’t be un-rung:
“Oh death where is thy sting?”
“Oh grave, where is thy victory?”
Poets will die;
but the ringing chords
of their words will live long lives:
Echoing clanging echoes…
