To Find

That I may view my lost trend
I wring my face
To retract my thoughts
I stretch my eyes
For I want, only to find.

In the hope of newness
I waste my night
To the frame that consumes it
Without a mustard soothe
Only, let me find.

Even for this, There's no equal
For sacrifice is nothing
As I find, wife and children
Give me nought.

Stand! I condemn I this day
To my sacred work but none
unless burning the comb for honey
With the spark not of a few
Seasoned in, Seasoned out
Just to mine, my obdurate mind.

by Emmanuel Ibuot

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