Then they asked tell us about “life” the wind that is in our nostrils, is it the heart bit or the movement of muscles in our chest, the twitch on our fingers or sighs every morning. What is man but food in his stomach and arrogance on his countenance in the days filled with madness? What is life but a glass of water in the hands of thoughtless vagabond? So delicate are the critical moments at a wrong turn we spill the contents never to recover them. The sweetness of the days slips through our fingers like melting ice cream in the hands of an infant under the African sun. Who can lick it back to the corn? I mourn a friend and choices of life destroy the opportunities of happiness. We come to this life with lots of hope and potential of days ahead only to hit our hearts on hard rocks, with thistles in our veins and gravel in our teeth. Like grasshoppers we born to eat, birth and die. The toils of our hands are but to gather materials that we cannot take to the grave with these things and us cannot protect us at the day of death. So short and subtle are the moments of the call of death: but to know that you are a breath away from death will keep you breathing life into all choices… the wages, the effects, the results, the consequences of the labor of our hands results in the grave. Little children play on hard ground throwing delicate eggs at each other; they hope they will not break. Life is but a chance to catch it before it hits the ground, and once you miss it another trip to the graveyard and the Cyrene of the undertaker. Death is in the soul and morality of human existence, death births death. When a heart is clouded with anger, bitterness it will flow tears, pain and hurt for others. Who has ever fixed a wrong with wrong: tooth for a tooth and eye for an eye will leave this world toothless and blind. Maponga Joshua iii
Posted on: Sat, 19 Jul 2014 05:52:18 +0000
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