Clanging Echoes...

 

 

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…