To fathers – past and present.
To the past, a tribute; to the present, an ideal;
Because it would be a truly sad world,
When the best Dads are the dead ones.
“My father, my father, the chariots of Israel and its horsemen!”
A teacher whose words marked the path to the destinies of generations;
Fell along the way, leaving only a silent lifeless landmark
No more will I hear him whisper from behind, “This is the way. Walk in it.”
I refuse to recall the dirge about ‘how the mighty have fallen’;
When I cannot find your trusted well-oiled shield’s protection.
‘How beautiful it is for brethren to live together in harmony’;
A beauty unmarred by offenses, unbroken by distance,
Unforgotten through time, to be desired the harder it is to maintain;
It is like the sound of heaven’s choir with perfect harmonies;
It is the song of victory of the saints separated by times,
Sang across generations, eras, dispensations, and covenants.
“To those who question their birth and decry this life and its troubles, and say that it might have been better not to have been born: Well, this life isn’t much, taken on its own merit, but what about eternity? Narrow-mindedness is a dangerous affliction; If you’re not born to this life, you have no chance at eternity. Is it worth it? This life might not be, but eternity is definitely worth it.” – Makafui.
“The worst kind of scars are those that cover unhealed wounds; Scars that are still painful to touch, reacting to even the gentlest of caresses with reflexive responses that spit in the faces of good-will and love. But there’s hope for tomorrow and today; Scars must tell their stories, but they should not control destiny.” – Makafui.
“Alas, the choice was made –
Irrevocable by the edicts of free-will.
Though it broke My heart many times over,
I watched as you left, dejected yet prideful;
Such pride as is borne of ignorance and presumptuousness.
I witnessed the corruption of perfections once more;
Took in at a glance the full extent of the cracks and flaws
Skillfully injected into My impeccable design.
Now here is the story told of a man, who rose up and said: “Hear hear, as I speak mysteries without interpretation. Listen well, for my words do not mean what they should, but they reveal my deepest thoughts. I hold concealed in one hand keys to the past, and in my bosom is hidden the door to the future. Now hear my dilemma and give me counsel. What do I say to console myself, having lost my other arm in a bid to rob from it’s owner the keys to the future? For my enemy holds with both fists the keys to the future, and hides behind the door to the past.”
There is silence till a child responds: “Sire, thou hast no hands.” To which an old man adds: “The doors to the future have no locks, one just needs to push through.”
When the dawn rises,
Glimpses of golden rays fall
Shimmering on diamond dews;
Beautiful Hope is nature’s prophecy,
Cast in stone and light and time.
Living portraits of timeless testimonies.
Ever new, ever changing, never despairing.