By Fikre Tolossa
Life is noting but a bridge that leads
To the next life all those who roam
on it. What a fool builds a house
on a bridge, deeming it a home?
Life is a tent,
And not a home.
It’ll shelter the next traveler,
When the first stops to roam.
Life is an airport
That welcomes strangers,
And bids farewell
familiar passengers.
Life is an inn
That houses the passersby for a night,
To kick them out and receive
The next passersby with delight.
Life is a harlot, but life
Is never, never a wife;
For everyone can have her
For a while, and not “forever”.
Life is a springboard
That helps us to leap
Up to the next life,
Our harvest to reap.
What Is My House?
My house is my temporal shelter,
And not my eternal home;
For I’m a time-bound wanderer
Till I stop to roam.
What Is Really Mine?
Nothing’s really mine.
Even my body’s not mine;
For it’ll be taken away from me,
However it looks strong and fine.
Nor do I possess eternal house and land,
As my body’s eternal abode is the grave.
Neither do I dare claim even my grave,
Whether I’m a king or pauper, coward or brave,
And whether my grave’s made of pure gold
Or rare precious stones,
For they may toss out my old bones,
To replace them with newer bones.
All things that I think I possess last only
for a moment. Indeed all of them perish
but my soul. God forbid that for this world’s
gains I lose my soul, that I guard and cherish.
(The poet, Fikre Tolossa, Ph.D., author of The Hidden & Untold History of the Jewish People & Ethiopians, which is available at Lulu.com, could be reached at: [email protected])