EGGS

Of all the eggs man hatches,
Bred chicken’s he most matches.

To have laid and consume such;
Grow, yield or still change much.

None knowing its own whence
Or where’s much timely when.

Unlike its master whose knives
Pick off its yet feathered lives;

It has no say in what brings
The very end of all things.

PATHS

Births aren’t starts,
Conceiving on facts.
Gestation’s little price,
Only the baby truly cries.

Bubbling youth bursts,
Adulthood courts lusts.
Stereotyped in existence,
Coloured in conscience.

Death can not be all,
All gather and will fall.
Like time of all births,
Vague are the real paths.

INKATHA

Soaked in the pride of birth,
Who is scared of this death?
Knowledge softens our carriage path,
Burdened with the spherical earth.

DOESN’T GOD HAVE MERCY?

Lit to glow and to flow,
Row down this miserable show.
To perch on the rock I know,
Time again only to flow and row.
How He copes and again sow
Belies His mercies for my loose soul.

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