'The Hearth of Recollection'
by Rishi Kunal, Esquire.
I stoop to where
the grate doth breathe
the quicken'd wood doth crack & sing in sparks
That smell of burning timber
mark it well
doth stir my blood:
of hearth
of toil
of childhood chambers
It creeps up in the mind like smoke
then settles sure as recollection
CLASSIC POEM
DEATH
There is no needle without piercing point.
There is no razor without trenchant blade.
Death comes in many forms.
With our feet we walk the goat's earth.
With our hands we touch God's sky.
Some future day in the heat of noon,
I shall be carried shoulder high
through the village of the dead.
When I die, don't bury me under forest trees, I fear their thorns.
When I die, don't bury me under forest trees, I fear their dripping water.
Bury me under the great shade trees in the market,
I want to hear the drums beating,
I want to feel the dancers' feet.
by Kuba, Zaire
