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Thursday, 22 July 2010
And in nine months,..
A seed turns into a breather..
To be ushered into this world..
A new light, or be it darkness..
A gift, of some-sort, in kind..
And some are born by right..
Virtue, of their clan's standing..
To be, of wealth and Kingship..
In default setting..
Yet no man, tells in prophecy of the oracle..
Truly, what becomes of man, in foresight..
A new light or be it darkness...
To have rained upon earthly soils..
And the stories, told by the clairvoyant..
Of the commoner, changing his stand..
To become a royal, in the kingdoms, realms..
His forefathers, served in...
No words, heard from the true blood..
Stride, strive , said to be the brawn..
Gift, against procrastination..
That, which makes the soothsayer's..
Words, hold ground..
And the gift, was like a seed,..
That needed planting, watering,..
Nurturing, to be harvested..
In made men..