Freedom is not an object
to be purchased from the shops,
it’s not like the giving of
one or two kilo’s of freedom chaps!
It’s what that thrives on the wings
of bees, butterflies or the dragonflies
that dances with the summer waft,
over the blazing,
flabby bunches of the lusty grain.
It’s the slides
with a hundred curves
over the gleeful tenants.
It’s the wintry morn-mist that glides
over the emerald vale,
the gush of sweet juice that pours
out of the date-palm;
the shivering, frozen puff
that cracks the meager bones;
or the fire that digs out of the mound
of straw and woods.
It’s the opening buds
with the touch of the first raindrops,
the virgin flower that flourish
with the stroke of dawn;
the menacing tempest
that bluster the roofs and roots;
the deluge that wipes the crops,
shifts with disastrous famine.
It’s the voice out of silence;
unshaped, immeasurable, left unheard,
kept untamed in the bosom
of every born free soul.