WHEN THE DUST SETTLES

Josephat S. Hema

I’m an Atlantic sailor,                  

Expertise on  rough waters.

My once feeble arms,

And weak feet,

Have been trained,

To endure all the hurricanes.

I’m and full-combat infantryman,

Trooping on the rough muddy road.

My once tender shoulders,

Have been trained,

To carry all the weights,

That takes to victory.

I’m a bald Eagle,

In the stormy skies of the Alsek River.

My once juvenile wings,

have been trained,

To resist the drag,

From a sudden squall of winds.

I’m a Ngoni warrior

In the midst of Mfecane craze.

My once coward heart and misfit body,

have been trained

to feel no pain and never never give up.

I’m a Chinchoro man,

In the stony terrain of Atacama.

I’m a San man,

In the savannah of Kalahari.

I’m Berber man,

In the rocky hamada of Sahara.

Longly rain-shadowed,

Wearisomely thirsty, but I move.

Even when the gale winds blind my frail eyes,

and impair my once acute sight,

i’ll keep on moving,

When the dust settles,

I’ll be on the other side.