“Communicating verbally rather than visually has much to recommend it. Words, used properly, can accurately convey concepts and explain complex ideas. They can persuade with logic and argument. They can change minds and thereby lives. The pen is mightier than the sword, because force can only compel from without, whereas words can convert from within. No wonder conquering cultures sometimes suppress indigenous tongues; no wonder it’s claimed that all you need to destroy a people is undermine their language. We naturally reign supreme among the animals, with our sophisticated speech. It is even said that without words, there is no memory.” — Ann Atkins of BBC Radio 4’s Thought For The Day. From Lemn’s blog

I leave you with a piece I believe exemplifies this with passion, grace and patience

TOO Well Done

By The Dusty Foot Philosopher

Justice has a sensitive belly.
I’ve noticed as a boy.
it has no use for me.
I am to it like fashion to the homeless.
Or an overcoat to the sun.
I’ve learned at an early age,
that I am an ambitious meal,
waiting to be tasted,
but occasions have come and gone.
Festivities and bloodstained victories,
elaborate celebrations and toasts,
in the name of hospital patients and ghosts,
in the name of hunger and misery,
suffering and diseases,
I’ve seen it all go by,
i’ve heard the crackling fire,
the meeting of the glasses,
the men in fine attire,
the burning cigar ashes.

Those were joyous days,
angels stripped to beasts,
the truth underneath the truth,
sold out seats and people,
no rights and wrongs, just good points,
opinions rush to form like soldiers,
and soldiers rush to kill for opinions,
that was the age of speech,
and communication, in a land where none dare speak,
and if a fool made the terrible mistake,
someone always screamed,
“can we please watch the war in peace”
the show must go on,
and everyone cheers for thieves,

I suppose I am surprised,
having endured time, and even wounds from the angel of death,
that justice has yet to taste me, touch me and smell my open veins,
ignoring me like my own shadow in the sunny mornings,

I remember my grandfather, sick and old with wisdom,
hammering his last nail into the wood of my old home,
his eyes dry of tears, nothing left to cry.
He said that I was exotic,
but like vomit, I was tough to swallow.
we sat in our pot,
boiling bothered and hot,
him dying, and me aspiring.
we dreamt and imagined far away places,
where justice ate away faces,
and guts and heads and arms too,
devouring on their discontent,
pecking and licking and chewing on their troubles,
gulping on their fears,
belching out assurance and security for all.
but this does not happen here,
justice does not dine here,
justice dies here,
it cannot take the sun,
or the poverty,
or the lack of sanitation,
but those are only excuses,
because really the truth is,
my ribs are too sour for it’s tongue,
my skin is too well done.
Suspicious newborns.
Flaming flowers.
Trusted snakes.
Death without brakes.
Bandits are leaders.
Rumors are law.
Sedatives are faith.
Rapers are praised.
Demons dress well.
Infants are nailed.
Spirits are jailed.
Grudges grow tails and wings and.
Things aren’t easy at my old home

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