In translation: He carries his hope with the strength of a lion
Yesiri and I become engrossed in a debate. The date is July 19, and its about Music as I utter my unpopular opinions. After a quick google search, I begrudgingly concede and the conversation devolves into comical absurdity. “Whatever man” I say. The mood is light as we shift to poetry, a mutual interest. Mid he asks me “Are you ready for another bad poem”, laughing I reply “Rhetorically or literally?”. Then we begin;
When WiFi’s off and the lake doesn’t stream is solemn,
So precious, be a golem, shop for the stars in the plaza
Settle for the suns in the thrift shop and at least you’ll be the skies
You’ll be a prize for as long as you make the rainbow ends meet
On their sky’s feet, you’ll get the pot of gold of your desires
Sometimes, levels are too pure for the rating
Sometimes, life is too short for debating
Such demise, thinking twice
But it’s another day for you in paradise.
It is beautifully scripted, the work of my brother’s hands. A normalcy to his craft.
“Where do people go where they die?” my 9-year-old sister asked.
It is really simple little one, bad people go to hell, good ones go to heaven or some sort of paradise, I suppose. You see I’m not actually sure, the concept of nothingness maybe petrifying. But good people never really leave us, while their bodies fade, they remain in our hearts.
In the cross fade, music plays in the background, the subtle tune of that new BB album, Stormzy slow pacing on "Time flies". The music to which I pay no heed any longer, as I am lost in thought. Words to a brother, they’re not many words my brother.
My hands sporadically shake and I respire slowly and try to relax. Sometimes, I’m weighed not only by my body, but also by words and feelings.
The people who left me behind, I loved them. Or rather I tell myself that when the night’s darkness is too grim, I should be consoling my delicate heart and mind.