In the tented city we enter,
Our hearts still beating with fire,
Afterglow of passion and wonder,
A feeling we cannot help but admire.
Lost and cool as heartache,
We know only what we know,
The left hand severed, a mistake,
Cleverness being our only show.
Weekdays cooking on a plate,
The hour lurking in the light,
Late-night chants that await,
As we venture into the night.
Close your eyes and strike a blow,
Light straightened by its shadow,
What we break is what we hold,
A singular blue note, our echo.
Outcry exiting our throat,
Pushing until we thin,
Thinking we won't creep back again,
A race we'll never win.
God licks his kin,
While we sing until our blood is jazz,
Swinging from June to June,
Sweating to keep from a weeping pass.
Groomed on hunger, we end too soon,
Our lives but a fleeting boon.
By Otieno Elvis Gikoi
THE ELO’S POETRY
©bold-geo
B