By Apele Mero
I was born a poor man,
Sent away from home,
Studied beneath my aunt’s roof,
Where the air swirled with smoke
Confusion and chaos.
“What do you know?” cried the heart,
Of pain wrapped in separation,
Walking without slippers,
An empty wallet, a torn t-shirt
A journey carved through silent nights,
Filled with wails and longing.
“What do you know?” cried the heart,
Judge me not by my dress,
You who have not seen what I’ve.
Judge me not for words unpolished.
My heart bleeds like melting snow.
Hollow eyes, yet still the instinct
To survive breathes in me,
Waiting—hoping—for radiant delight.
“What do you know?” cried the heart,
Sweet honeycomb clings to stone,
Yet my tongue burns with bitter sorrow.
Oh, cruel is your sight of pity
Let me be as I am.
If you extend your hand,
Do not shrink from my dirt-streaked palms.
“What do you know?” cried the heart.