Not From A Silver Spoon

I'v been fed all seasons,
Through a spoon that straightens and bends to stand time's test.

Not from a silver spoon,
A golden one;
I know not.
Neither a bronze or a metal spoon,
Not even a plastic one,
But from a woefully carved wooden spoon I hail.

I belong to those that dig,
Dig harder the soil to make a way,
And those that sweat like hell to have a life.
In the extreme corner of their world.

The bloody heir of the Have-nots I'm,
Those that run their axes to market woods,
Feed on pebbles for living,
And drink raw river waters to quench their thirsts.
Lives like prisoners in the free world.

Am a fan of the low man;
The rejected being that struggles in pain all days.
Am the khan of the market dwellers;
Those that sell goods,
In hot sun that burns like hell.

Am a friend to the lives on the street;
The lame,
The deaf,
The blind,
The mad,
And all the deforms.

Not from a silver spoon,
I root in deep among the hard labourers,
Those that have their veins worn out on the sea.

Still, I will strive with zeal,
Till my hoe romance the golden bag.

by Olufayo Ezekiel

Other poems of EZEKIEL (44)

Comments (1)

wow, great poem. This is just what I was looking for, to use in a project. This is a great example of how the rwandan genocide effected some people more than others. Great work, thanks for sharing -Nick Oldberg