If the head is sick,
The body is sick.
The consolation prods
Further disease,
A trap as it holds us
Clutched in the snares
Of our own minds,
Gallantly picking specks
Of sawdust from
Our neighbor’s eyes,
By the heavy log
That resides in ours.
The water is contaminated,
And we are the stream.
A long neck here,
And a blind eye there.
A wad of notes
Transported through a handshake.
Why do we frown
At our children
For repeating now
The instructions of
Shall we sow seeds of aggression
And reap peace?
Or shall our seeds of greed
Beget fruits of contentment?
Do we give
A man both
Bow and arrow
Teach him to shoot it
Tell him to shoot it
Stand in his way
And not anticipate
The tearing of our flesh?
                                         Itari Eki-Allen