by Henoke Yeshetlla
The un-bridged gulf
The abyss of alienated self….
First as a layman, that can be scared away by pure thought
Then as a scholar,
whose profession made him behave like a thinking chariot
And then like a baby,
Whose very test is the thumb of his feet…
And his dummy, the only possession that makes “him” happy and angry.
Then, an attempt….
“To be or not to be….”
The genotype of determination….
What a variation.
Is that the same principle which governs genetic modulation
Of diseases severity
Also governs, our narrow mentality?
What determines reason…
What other factor will be taken as a lesson.
Morning and lamenting
“Blasting and signing” like an ignited furnace….
Blousing and shaming in disgrace….
Hey, guys…isn’t there a better way ….
To quote our race and trace our sense….?
Our commandment…says
“Scratch my back……I will bite yours”
Work for me….I will make my life through your veins.
I am you’re your sterile reason: I am your drone.
Worker, you are…..
Hanging on the ceiling: like an un-electrified bulb….
Filled up with the current of honey….
Work for me…..
I can fertile the queen: do not worry
She can save as many cells as I can provide
I am her full share….
And you are, my sterile….
Look I eat, procreate and seep you
As you are my honey tube….
Look, I can even send you to nectar for me….
On your way to sting and die
Your “prodigies of self abnegation”…
It is because of your sterile mission.
It is because , my life is your commandment…
The communal stomach, is your courage…
As you know it well…
The immortal gene flows through us
Through the bodies of minority individuals…
As you know it well….
The death of a single sterile worker bee….
Is not as fatal as your sterile reason me….
I am the drone , though we are from the same mother…
Though, I depend on you…
When I need protection: you are a retired worker…
Who guards my bee-hive with a new name: as a soldier…
When I need, I will send you far…
I will teach how to glance the horizon…
Came back home: with a belly…
Filled up with honey….
Workers you are I choose you….
Workers you will remain…
I decided to be sterile…
And with your complete gene…
You are not able to define yourself…
Only to cross the river and the gulf…
And does the flower surf…
Your are my worker bee…
I can send you to Somalia…
I can make you travel to Arabia…
Juba, Congo and Libya…
Sting and die….
I will sup the honey from your belly…
Or I will flute your death, and make sense….
I am the drone…
You are my sterile reason….
So scratch my back; I will bite yours…
The un-bridged gulf
The abyss of alienated self….
First as a layman, that can be scared away by pure thought
Then as a scholar,
whose profession made him behave like a thinking chariot
And then like a baby,
Whose very test is the thumb of his feet…
And his dummy, the only possession that makes “him” happy and angry.
Then, an attempt….
“To be or not to be….”
The genotype of determination….
What a variation.
Is that the same principle which governs genetic modulation
Of diseases severity
Also governs, our narrow mentality?
What determines reason…
What other factor will be taken as a lesson.
Morning and lamenting
“Blasting and signing” like an ignited furnace….
Blousing and shaming in disgrace….
Hey, guys…isn’t there a better way ….
To quote our race and trace our sense….?
Our commandment…says
“Scratch my back……I will bite yours”
Work for me….I will make my life through your veins.
I am you’re your sterile reason: I am your drone.
Worker, you are…..
Hanging on the ceiling: like an un-electrified bulb….
Filled up with the current of honey….
Work for me…..
I can fertile the queen: do not worry
She can save as many cells as I can provide
I am her full share….
And you are, my sterile….
Look I eat, procreate and seep you
As you are my honey tube….
Look, I can even send you to nectar for me….
On your way to sting and die
Your “prodigies of self abnegation”…
It is because of your sterile mission.
It is because , my life is your commandment…
The communal stomach, is your courage…
As you know it well…
The immortal gene flows through us
Through the bodies of minority individuals…
As you know it well….
The death of a single sterile worker bee….
Is not as fatal as your sterile reason me….
I am the drone , though we are from the same mother…
Though, I depend on you…
When I need protection: you are a retired worker…
Who guards my bee-hive with a new name: as a soldier…
When I need, I will send you far…
I will teach how to glance the horizon…
Came back home: with a belly…
Filled up with honey….
Workers you are I choose you….
Workers you will remain…
I decided to be sterile…
And with your complete gene…
You are not able to define yourself…
Only to cross the river and the gulf…
And does the flower surf…
Your are my worker bee…
I can send you to Somalia…
I can make you travel to Arabia…
Juba, Congo and Libya…
Sting and die….
I will sup the honey from your belly…
Or I will flute your death, and make sense….
I am the drone…
You are my sterile reason….
So scratch my back; I will bite yours…
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