I Have a Question, Father

[ Image from pediatrician-in-swaziland.blogspot.com]




My eyes don't lie to me, father,
My ears don't lie to me, father

When I hear you insult mum
Yet say that I should not insult my teachers
I feel like I don't understand all this

You make us live in fear, father,
Mum tells us, "Shhhssh, your dad is coming"
And when you finally come, we hide under our blankets

That is when you sing, father:
"Mututho, utabaki mi nitaenda na beer
Eeeh Mututho utabaki mi nitaenda na beer"
You would sing and sing
And tell mum to warm your food

Then I will hear you insult mum
Bang the table, slap mum
You will beat mum, she will cry
I will wake up, shield mum
So that you will stop
But you will beat her again and again

In the morning, father,
You will tell me to obey teachers at school
And be a good child
But when I  look at mum:
Her swollen eyes, her cracked lips
Her bruised neck, her fractured forehead
All these, father, make me not understand you

In the school my friend Tom tells me
That his father plays with his mum
That he has not heard his father insult his mother
That they laugh everyday

Yesterday, father, I saw Tom's mother
Her eyes were good, her lips alright
On her neck she had a very good necklace
I saw her and I cried for mum

I have a question, father,
If Tom's father doesn't beat his mother
Why do you beat mother?


C) Lorot Salem 2011

My Pen Guide Me

( This is the third of poems to celebrate women on 8th March on the occasion of International Women's Day 2011)

[ Image from
gammabama.com ]




My pen guide me to write this
About a story untold
About a person unknown
About a feat uncelebrated


My pen guide me to write this
Let you be the judge
Let you do justice to this soul
Let you lead the story-line

There is a woman
Her name never mentioned in the telly
Her speech never heard in a Conference
Her photo never archived anywhere
Her story tucked in her heart, almost exploding

There is a woman
Every inch the ingredient of a heroine
Every bit the throb of a refreshing story
Every angle the pulse of life

My pen guide me to write this
About a story untold
About a person unknown
About a feat uncelebrated

My pen guide me to write this
Let you be the judge

Let you do justice to this soul
Let you lead the story-line

There is a woman
Who wakes up at crack of dawn
Just to have tea for children before Sunrise;
There is a woman
Who has folded the sacred scroll of the community
inside her heart, yet she is no sentry
There is a woman
Uncorrupted, if she has no food she smiles
 

This woman, my pen guide me to write about
To let the world know; to curve her a place in history
My pen guide me, let you be the judge
To write the story of this woman
Let you do justice to this soul, let you lead the story-line

My pen guide me to write this
About a story untold
About a person unknown
About a feat uncelebrated.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Hongera Mama Wangari Maathai

( This is the second poem of a series of poems to celebrate women on the International Women's Day on 8th March 2011. This poem honours the Nobel Laureate Prof. Wangari Maathai)

[ Image from ogiek.org ]


You need no introduction, Mama
As lawyers will say, " We take judicial notice"
For you are not only a household-name in Kenya
But also as far as Tajikistan.

I was at Uhuru Park the other day
And as I lay on green grass and stared at the blue skies
A nudging thought ate my mind:
What if your hair hadn't been pulled?
What if you hadn't been whipped and tear-gassed?
What if you hadn't put your life on the line?

Hongera Mama Wangari Maathai
Thank you for that heroic act.

Oft-times I see you on telly
That broad smile, that motherly head-gear
You talking about our trees, our rivers
And our grandchidren
In you, I don't see a person
Instead I see a generation of children unborn
In you, I don't see Kenya
Instead I see our world and its beauty

Sadly, too, Mama
Behind you on the telly I see a shadow
Of an axe felling a forest,  Highrise building on a wet area
Behind you I see a plume of Greenhouse Gases
Behind you I see an Enviro-assassin, most devious
Most vile

But again, Mama, hongera
For fighting for Uhuru Park:
For in that one single act
We escape the concrete jungle
And if Nature be for us, we are on the right path.

In deed, you need no introduction
As the Nairobi morning sun kisses Uhuru Park
As the birds chirp, tired souls sleep on grass
As children row their midget boats
As the tranquility tiptoes to numbed minds
Somehow, your name is immortalized
Hongera Mama Wangari Maathai.

Hongera-- A Kiswahili word for thank you, congratulations.
Mama-- A Kiswahili word for mum, it is a respected title for a mother.


C) Lorot Salem 2011

On The Sixth Day God Created a Woman

( This is the first poem of a series of poems to celebrate women on the International Women's Day on 8th March 2011)

[ Image from
petergreenberg.com ]




A woman, true to God's artistry, is a work of art
Every bit a masterpiece, coupled with a heart;
It is no coincidence, fellow mortal, when all is said
That the Good Book reckons "fearfully made"
I imagine God saying this on Day Six:

" And now Eve I create thee
From a rib, thine breath mouldeth thou
Out of Adam, I create thee"

But God looks askance at his work
Fetches for an angel saying:

" Forgot the tear-ducts,
Eve won't be eve without tears"

The angel fetches it and God says,
"It is good"

Upon opening the cranium, God tut-tuts
Fetches the angel again saying:

"Need to reduce the brain size,
fetch me a spatula
Eve needs to communicate"

The angel fetches it and God says,
"It is good"

But upon feeling the palm of his work
God again says to the angel:

"Quick! A sandpaper!"

Upon making Eve's palm soft, He says,
"It is good"

Adam appears from flowers
Retorts: "God, this is not fair,
All the day you have modelled Eve
Yet for me you just blew into my nostrils!"

Upon which God, in his Grace, responds:
" Good Adam, thou art a man
Tear-ducts thine eyes don't need
Soft palms thine hands don't need
A fair creation in Eve have I created
All for thee, Adam "


* I have made reference to the woman's brain being reduced by God. This is scientifically correct ( I mean their brains being smaller than those of men). On my reading I discover that though small, a woman's brain has many nerve cells and thus able to communicate effectively than men. So, that stanza was not in any way derogatory.


C) Lorot Salem 2011

The Flute Man

[ Image from afropop.org ]




I once knew a man who could play a flute
As he looked after his goats:
Rugged clothes, torn shoes, dishevelled countenance
But when he played that flute
He could draw air from his lungs
Breathing softly into his magical instrument

Of what a G-Clef was, or woodwind instruments
Or Poco a poco, or Hemi-Demi-Semi Quaver were
Our Flute Man couldn't tell
I can bet my last tooth

Of tubular recorder and globular ocarina
Of the thigh bone as the first flute
Our Flute Man couldn't tell
I myself can't tell yet I am a Music Director

But when the Flute Man tapped his flute gently
Swept his tongue from one coast of his mouth to another
Cleared his throat, adjusted himself on a boulder
Blew his life into that flute
Music was born

He enchanted the flute, seducing it with the breath of his voice
He dexteriously slided his fingers to extract melody
He entranced the god of the flute
Entralled him to awaken music never heard of
Yet, as we surmise, the Flute Man is a Flatfoot in music

We learnt that the Flute Man
Suffered from Asthma;
His health failed him
Undeterred he could exhale music into that flute
Surrounded by his goats;
Whether he needed the Poco a Pocos to hone his art
We can't tell: All we know, he was a talented Flute Man

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Re-Member Me: Paradox of our Times

[ Image from africancolours.com ]




I am tired, Kinsmen, of reading John Locke
Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill, Comte
I am tired reading Max Weber, Gramsci,
Michael Alexandrovich Bukunini.

I want to read about my ancestors
How they could keep our history in their minds
Dates, locations, chronology of events
I want to learn how they could read offals
And tell the topography of our land
Their rivers, the hills, the valleys
And of approaching enemies.

I want to learn the herbs they chewed
To cure us of constipation, or how a snake
poison could be neutralised. I want to know these things:
How my ancestors were in their "state", their "family structure"
Their "court structure", "Punishment", "Oral narratives"

Of equal importance, let it be known,
I want to know where my umblical cord was buried
To rest the spirit of my forefathers
Let the wisdom of my people be brought back
Let it be told anew in our huts and river-beds.

I am tired, Kinsmen, of reading John Locke
Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill and Comte
Their knowledge confuses me, it further eludes my umblical cord
For they speak of foreign things which our people won't understand
They speak of alien things which our land hasn't heard.

My good forefathers, in the ways of our people,
I should have asked where this John Locke's home is
Whose son and grandson is he
Where he got his wisdom from
All I was told is that "he said that"

In our wisdom, don't we sit him
Under oron tree asking him to tell us
Where he heard from what he says?
And if he speaks of what we don't understand
Won't we admonish him, telling him to tell us
About what he heard, saw or touched?

I want to learn the ways of my people
Even if they are not in books:
I want to read from Loitabela's lips about poryo maua
kollowa, Lotiriri, churman
I want to read from children singing under the moon
I want to read from kidong'a and sapana
I want to read from the baraza and the Marketplace
I want to read from the proverbs and idioms of my people
I want to read from the ululation of a woman
I want to read from a war cry
I want to read Geography from offals.

I am tired, Kinsmen, of reading John Locke
Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill, Comte
I am tired reading Max Weber, Gramsci,
Michael Alexandrovich Bukunini.

I want to read about Loitabela
Kama Chemne, Lolima, Lotebus, Loyapan.
I want to read about my ancestors.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

You have Failed Me, Mondanyu

[ Image from mentalhelp.net ]




I too want to share the glory
Of an exuberant parent before Press:
The intelligent glance, rolling eyes, warm embrace,
I too want that piece of glory
To see your name in the papers
To watch the clip of our laughter on the Telly
To share a joke about how the Great Werunga was intelligent.
But I hide my face, unable to bear the shame:
Your Headteacher told me this morning that you were namba-mkia*
In all the four years, you could not even come with a dik dik home
All you collected were safari ants and wild berries!
How will I meet my fellow women in the Merry-go-round?
What shall I tell them? That you floundered?
What do I tell your father? That this stupidity I passed it to you?
In the morning, I asked myself many questions
In the fields I eked out a living, all I got I gave your Headteacher
Late into the night I sew mats to buy you kerosene and textbooks
We rehabilitated the cow-shed into your study-room
When we afforded, we called Mwalimu Losil for your tuition
What didn't we do that made you fail, mondanyu*?
Where will I put my face in the Merry-go-round?
What shall I tell them? That you floundered?

 * Namba-mkia- A Kiswahili term for the last, one who is at the tail-end of the class.
* Mondanyu- A Pokot word for 'My child'.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Would You Mind?

Would you mind if we split up your salary
As I, a poet, wrote for you pieces you love?

Would you mind if I stayed in your house
Just drinking from the licit brew of my intoxication?

Would you mind, friend, if I woke you up at 2 a.m.
To tell you that Cummings spoke to me in a dream?

If I took you to the fields and asked you if the air
Is a little sulky and withdrawn, would you mind?

Would you mind, friend, if I read you my free verses
In a busy lane without a care, shouting like a man possessed?

If I kept silent, just listening to my loud thoughts
Or perhaps burst out laughing, would you mind?

If I whistled deep into the night, just to hear my voice
And with equal measure tapped my feet, would you mind?

If I invited you to see the cactus and thorns on a hot day
Without use of your jalopy, would you mind?

Would you mind friend, if I played Zilizopendwa* in your Sony
And hummed along with Daudi Kabaka's Pole Musa?

Would you mind, if in my eccentricity, I followed up a spider
Into your attic, because it is a subject of my poem?

Would you mind, friend, if I kept my poetry books in your cabinet
And flicked on channels for my favourite poets?

If I talked with your pet, laughing with him and teach him
A thing or two about survival, would you mind?

Friend, would you mind if I stopped a little while longer
To chat with a mad man, just to keep up with him?

Would you mind, friend, if I stared into the dying sun
While listening to Sundowner, feeding on its last glory?

Would you mind if we lived on your fat salary
While I keep to necessities, as long as I can breath?

Would you mind my lifestyle, my oddity, my queerness
Amidst your standard regulated life?

Would you accommodate me, friend
With all my imperfections and anomaly?

* Zilizopendwa-- Those old music common with the old folks
Daudi Kabaka-- An iconic musician of Kenya who passed away; Pole Musa is one of his songs


C) Lorot Salem 2011

Telegram From The Dead

                                             

                                                                               Space
                                                                      Dangerous heights
                                                                                Thud
                                                                         Scattered limbs

                                                                              Spiral to
                                                                               abyss
                                                                        Crimson blood

                                                                              Muffled
                                                                               Sobs
                                                                               Gash

                                                                                Sirens
                                                                          Ambulances.
                                           


                                                                      ~ Lorot Salem 2011

Let Us Draw a Sketch, You and I

Let us then draw a sketch, you and I,
Of a blueprint of what our minds chart

Draw close, put these thoughts,
Paint them anew, make them real

Let us get lost in this moment,
Let us be poised to tomorrow

Never be shackled, let our minds be free
Let them intrude into the dawn unknown

Let us immortalize these, you and I
Because oft great ideas are shy and soon scamper

Let us forget this moment, the pain and reality
Let us envision ourselves soaring with the eagles

Let us then draw a sketch, you and I
Of that very eagle

Imagine us flapping those wings, the endless skies
Buildings like toys, monuments like grains

Imagine us in that freeing wind
Gliding, diving in phantom heights

Now, let us draw the sketch, you and I
Let us be the eagle

Worry not of the fate of Icarus and Daedulus
We are not even in the clouds, first things first

After finishing the sketch,
Let us look back and cogitate

Tomorrow, you and I,
we will be that eagle.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Kacheliba Hill

Kinsman, when I look at Kacheliba Hill*
My eyes cloud, my heart putters

Suppressed joy escapes my lips
I shout gratitude in the tongue of my people

Why, this Hill stands tall
Watching us below, aware of its sacred duty

It towers magnificently, detached
Leaving Lomalaya* and Shabaha* in pet rivalry

Oh, Kacheliba Hill, you are the umpire
Never judgmental, you know all the secrets

You feed the monkeys with mkwaju*
The hyraxes hide in your bosom

Eywei*, even lotiriri* sit on your head
You don't mind its whirring engine

In the ways of our people, I need to say thank you
May be with a gourd of sour milk and sorghum

But how do I do? Should I pour it on your peak
Or at the foothills?

Should I do it at daytime
Or at night?

You are wise, of that I admit
You don't burble, you don't gabble

Of those prattles of the wind
You choose to ignore in your sagacity

We all rever you, even in jest
We don't swear by your name

When I was young, I wrote my name
On your skin; I wanted you to remember me

I called out my name to you, you repeated that
Exactly like my voice; we remain comrades

Stand tall, stand magnificent
O Kacheliba Hill; always remain true



C) Lorot Salem 2011
**********************

Kacheliba Hill-- A defining geographical feature in Kacheliba, Kenya.


 Lomalaya-- A small hill in kacheliba; Also, Shabaha.


 Mkwaju-- A Kiswahili term for tamarind.


Eywei-- A Pokot word used to express sadness, sympathy, pity.


Lotiriri-- A Pokot word for an aeroplane.

February 1984

( This poem is an elegy to the 5,000* people who were killed on February 1984 in what is commonly referred to as the Wagalla Massacre. This is their story, these are their voices.)

I am a ghost in your conscience
Gnawing at your beleaguered mind
Screaming not in graveyard
But expanse of nothingness;
I am a haunted ghost.

I am the shame in your heart
That no amount of soul-searching will cleanse
I am the dirt, the forgotten stain
Dotting your fabric.

I am a roving spirit in Tarbaj, Leheley,
Wajir-Bor, Khoraf Harar, Bulla Jogoo
Wagalla Airstrip;
I refuse to settle, tormented is my phantom.

I walk in broken steps, head bowed,
Carrying the shame of my corrupted tale
Desert heat carrying the stench of my death
The wind carrying the dirge in my breast.

We are a legion spirits
Of ruptured brains, cindered bodies, rotten flesh
We carry the laceration of our raped bodies
On our backs are canvasses of mad artists
Our scars tell a story, we need not say it.

Our spirits have those images:
Naked bodies on hot gravel, gun shots
Last rigours of bodies clawing at life
Perfect job, clean work.

We are a story that will not die
You may obliterate us
You may extirpate what happened
But our kindred spirits
Will be the story.

I often wonder the symbolism it brings
Annihilation at an airstrip:
To never allow dreams take off?
To keep us back to the penury of the ground?

Sometimes as spirits we often laugh
At the sense of humour: Of watching you rape our wives,
make us drink our urine, then scatter our brains
Now, those are the ingredients of a good horror movie.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Poet's Note:

* The official government position has been that only 57 people were killed during the Wagalla Massacre. However, others put the figure at 5,000.

In preparation to write this poem, I had to read a couple of materials including Wagalla Massacre: The Untold Story, Blood on the Runway: The Wagalla Massacre of 1984 by S. Abdi Sheikh.

As the author writes: "The Wagalla Massacre story has every bit of a horror movie; blood and scattered brains, severed limbs, rotting flesh and mass graves".

The pain that these people went through was heart-rending, if we are to go by the accounts. They were told to lie down on their chests on the hot tarmac. Those who disobeyed were shot, others died of heat exhaustion. Others were showered with petrol and set ablaze.

Why I Write

I write to free my heart and mind, sustain my sanity
Clustered ideas throng my cranium, legion emotions surge
Voices becloud me, writing them extracts meaning

I write to speak to man, I write to be human
To convey blossoming buds, to apprise caged spirits
To sing of his merriment, to mourn his sorrow

I write to speak from my soul's depths, to reveal my substance
To share my sacred thoughts, to expose my foibles
My eccentricities and idiosyncrasies, my flaws

I write for no reason, I write for no cause
I rummage through my mind, most times at odd places and times
Stumbling upon undecided thoughts, arresting them into meaning
 
I write because words are the only things I have
I can mock kings, I can soothe a tiger
I can paint, I can create--just like God!

C) Lorot Salem 2011

God Recites a Poem ( Part 2)

(Continued from Part 1)

In my poetry, I need no audience
For I can be my own audience
I seek no man's approbation nor appraisal
I am God, I don't move with emotions

I need no experience
I need no reward
If I write I write, once writ no one unwrites
For I am Alpha and Omega, The First and the Last
Time is me, experience is under my feet

I am El-Gibhor, the Mighty God
For I can roar as thunder and whisper in the winds
I can lift the poor and humble the wealthiest
I can speak now and echo throughout eternity
My voice has no limit, I don't have a voice-box
For I am the voice, voice is under my feet

I fit no description, I am indescribable
Yet my facet is known throughout the ages
Of my mercy, my righteousness, my holiness
Men speak my story, I need no story-telling
For even storytelling is me, storytelling is under my feet

I am God, the Creator
I speak and create, I can create and destroy
I can even destroy what is already destroyed
For I can create what has not been created
I can lift a village into a city and bring down empires
At one fell swoop
For creation and destruction are under my feet


Jehovah-Shalom is my name, The Lord of Peace,
I can calm turbulent waters, I can pacify raged hearts
I can send a dove to the mind of a killer, I can conciliate
I can mollify, I can placate
For peace is me, placating is under my feet

I suffer no depression, mortification is not me
I never tire, exhaustion is not me
I never sleep, lethargy is not me
I need no holiday, recess is for my creation
I am God, the Inexhaustible

C) Lorot Salem 2011

God Recites a Poem ( Part 1)

I am God, I share no name with mortals,
I am Elohim, God the Creater and Transcendent
I am El Shaddai, God All Sufficient

In the beginning even before beginning
was beginning I was there;
For I can't be measured by time
For I am El- Olam, the Everlasting God

I am God, the Indescribable One
For I don't fit into the tongue of man
I defy his lexicon for I am the lexicon
Words are under me

Jehovah- M'kaddesh is my name,
The Lord Who Sanctifies
I am holy, delight is mine for righteous souls
Chagrin fills me for the unrighteous


I am God, the Invisible One
You can't paint me on a canvas
Yet I take a walk in Exhibitions
And marvel at your works

I am God, a poet
In fact the greatest poet in heaven and earth
( Heaven and earth? Nay, without limitation of time and space)
I need no script to write my verses and proses
I need no inspiration
I need no style
I suffer no writer's block

My poems are not enclosed in books
They are in the lips of man my creation
They are in the beaks of birds my creation
They are in the tides and waves
Morning dews
Nightingales.

My poems need no review nor critique
For they are just that: Classicals
You see them everyday on the face of a stranger
A talented man walking on tight rope
You see it on a child's face
You see it as the wind blows on a grassy field
Those are my poems, those are my classicals

I am God, I am the Everlasting Poet.
The Bard,  The Sonnetist, The Ace Rhapsodist.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

These Hands

In these shrivelled bony hands, young man,
lie the years of my life
their pulses, their warmth
of times past, many years ago

these hands used to be agile
firm handshakes, steady grip, cosy cuddle
but now limp with age
cold. shaky. lifeless

these hands, young man
once flowed with warm blood
alert nerves
nimble fingers
dexterous

don't be deceived by colour, dear young man
these hands once had the whitest fingernails
now torn, weatherbeaten
(who said age ain't nothing but a number?)

these hands could clap too, dear young man
these very hands
these hands could lift metals and sacks
when these hands were hands

young man, I envy you,
nay, I envy your hands
I can feel their pulses, blood flowing
fingers coursing, you can even pull a fist!

so why then are your hands without emotion?
why the metallic handshakes?
why the undecided clasp?

tell me, dear young man,
why are your hands frail in their youth?
where is life in those hands?
whence went pride in beautiful hands?

O tell me, my young son,
how those hands will be in old age
if they can't lift metals and sacks now.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Chemistry Without Formulae

In a tight clandestine circle they perch
Surreptitiously mumbling incantations
Mumbo-jumbo-abracadabra of a dead ancestor
Lips quiver, heads like geckos move in tandem
Rising and falling, rising and falling
Following some unwritten script

From afar, the bonfire rages on
Offals of a slaughtered black bull are broadcast
To the East where the sun rises, and to the West where ancestors sleep
More  ala kazam, more rise and fall of head
Enfeebled men warble to charm the spirits

"Peace upon the land, if one of you, our forefathers
Is displeased, partake of this libation.
Hold back the rays of the sun against our bald heads
If you let showers, let them not fall like roofs of huts
If we plant sorghum, don't shame us with drought
If any one has offended you, we ask for forgiveness"

One old man reads the offals
Of topography and rivers, of lucks and dangers
Just like a palm-reader!

Atop the raging river, feet are washed
To cleanse the land. A rebirth.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

The Unfinished Conversation

"The Error of your ways, O you lesser mortals!"

He scorns me, his eyes burning on my face

"What quick tongue you have, O sly craftsman!"

I sit, clammed up, unable to respond,

Whenceupon he looks at the hills, bearing dark clouds

rumbles being heard from afar, the land tight with expectations.

"What say thou, if I may ask,

for such an iniquity, for such a transgression?

speak, mortal man, speak"

My mind is numbed, my throat is parched

The raindrops. The patter. Flowing stream.

"Speak, let the rain wash away and cleanse 

the land. Unchain your mind, let your tongue speak

ethos or anathema for it to be washed by the flowing stream;

Now SPEAK!"

Upon which I ventured:

"What should I say, if not what will

Stir the hornet's nest:

What shall I say of myself in your presence

If not stoking the embers of your wrath?"

It rained ever more. I saw flowing debris flowing by,

Torrent, deluge

I lifted my eyes to beseech,

But he was gone!

C) Lorot Salem 2011

We Hold These Truths To Be Self-Evident

We hold these truths to be self-evident
that all men and women are created equal
that both are endowed with certain inalienable rights
that among these are unencumbered hearts, body and soul

We affirm that no man should raise an arm
Be it in malice, misdirected anger or chauvinism
Against a woman
that history has writ that no battles
no victory
no fair judgment was cast
on a society that butchered women souls

We affirm that in the nature of things
that man could chase an animal into a river
that man could jump a building to capture a ruffian
that man could scale a wall to fix a window pane
that women could walk unharmed in raging battlefields
that women were never intended to be objects of hate
that women were designed to create peace

In light of these, this declaration is hereby made
on this 11th of February  in the  year of our Lord 2011
that all men and women are created equal
that our laws will punish a man who maims or kills a woman, imagines,
or acts in a manner to suggest that he intends to do so and all other
intentions or acts not captured here.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Never Be Shaken, Mortal Man

Mortal Man, rise from the dust

We have seen cindered ashes moulded to claypot

We have seen ungrammatical proses

Skid to glory

Rise up, Mortal Man,

I can see you star twinkling

So bright other stars complaining

You may not see it now

I can see it up in the galaxy

Hitch your wagon to the Horizons, Mortal Man

We have seen nondescript elements claim glory

For they remain true as a needle

Rise up.

Never be shaken.

Never forget to dust up.

Even the great had a sad story of struggle.

Mortal Man, Rise up

If some believed that a star could hang on a mountain cap

If some saw a skycrapper galloping down the streets

Who told you that success is impossible?

C) Lorot Salem 2011