The Search

The past

Is but the cinders

Of the present;

The future

The smoke

That escaped

Into the cloud-bound sky.

Be gentle, be kind, my beloved

For words become memories,

And memories tools

In the hands of jesters.

When wise men become silent,

It is because they have read

The palms of Christ

In the face of the Buddha.

So look not for wisdom

And guidance

In their speech, my beloved.

Let the same fire

Which chastened their tongues

Into silence,

Teach us--teach us!

The rain came down,

When you and I slept away

The night’s burden of our passions;

Their new-found wisdom

In quick lightening flashes

Revealed the truth

That they had been

The slaves of fools.

From “The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry,” edited by Gerald Moore and Ulli Beier (Penguin: 448 pp., $15.95)