The Solemn Palms of God

Come on, little frail bird

Let me count the lines on your toes
And the fluffy wings that avail your liberty

Come on, little frail bird
Let me a feather,
Let me taste what lie in the heart of being free

For we are still in limbo, lost!
We can’t see or hear, though with eyes and ears.

The real routes, we still don’t know their source
We have, yes two generations
But none is a better story to narrate to our children.

Where are the solemn palms of god?
That crafted your identity:
Tell me their nature
So that we will not mistake them for the sorcerer
For we have them all over
And they claim to be those solemn hands that craved you.
And they inculcate fear into our shabby hearts
That mistake the beauty in truth with the fear of death.

Tell me, who are we to own each other?
Who are we to be the possessors of others souls?
Tell me, who should be listened to: the sorcerer or that which coin him?
In the era of their making, they lie of their capabilities
And roar that they know the composite of our fragile hearts
And that without them, we, our existence will be a story for the future.
But they are there, not through their own hands; rather through our handicapped fingers and blindfolded eyes; we elected them, but never told them to be the type they are today: dirty, arrogant, corrupt, nepotists, parasites.

We still know not our own strengths
Because we are still without the needed virtue
And this weakness, they take advantage of

Little frail bird, tell us where to fetch those solemn hands
For it is only those real hands that can save our cloudy heads
For it is five decades, being drowned in the muddy stream.


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