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  • Freedom Love Call

     

     

    Someplace waits for me a country

                in search of whose arms am I

    to break fast  ’neath its olive tree

                breathe its breath and lightly sigh

     

    To know but once such lasting glory

                as hand upon hand alone can lay,

    and etch but word in untold story,

                a drop of light in eternal day

     

    For One Hand, more glorious than all

                has laid a kingdom just for me

    It sings aloud an emancipation call

                A land where I can be free

     

    Where the slaves shall rise in deafening roar,

                then soft subside to freely roam

    so beneath the stars and upon its shore

                I make my peace, I find my home

     

    Its old black chains will in freedom burn

                and their iron casts in dignity melt

    and with this dream, for one I yearn

                who what I feel, she too has felt

     

    ***

     

    Walking Past my Dignity

     

    To their cars and shops, to the flower mart

    They hurriedly scurry along

    While I sleep on the streets, next to my cart

    In places they say I don’t belong

     

    They pretend not to see me, an inconvenient truth

    To them, I am just a bum, unkempt and uncouth.

     

    Today was not unlike any other day,

    I write about it because I can,

    The one pleasure of mine which none can strip away,

    The most basic right of a man.

     

    The one part of me not judged by passersby,

    I will hold to it dearly until the day I die.

     

    Now allow me sirs, if you could spare some time,

    To tell this short and simple tale

    Of a world where “stuff” has become so sublime,

    A gaudy world materialists hail.

     

    And all men of this world are of this kind,

    Having a coward’s heart and a mercenary’s mind.

     

    And all men of this world are of this type,

    They only appreciate fruit when it is plump and ripe.

     

    They are prisoners of plenty, unable to share

    A word or a glance with a man of the street,

    But my prison walls are made of air

    While the walls that confine them are glass and concrete.

     

    Do they forget to remember or remember to forget

    That I have a story, a heart, an intellect?

     

    They have no desire to control their eyes,

    Even to direct them to me.

    I am the only one of us who can say goodbyes,

    Seemingly the only one free.

     

     

    ***

     

    Bless the Soil

     

     

    Of all the fields of all the lands,

    there is but one on which to rest.

    There is but one to take my hands

    and only one that has been blessed.

     

    And for me on this sacred ground

    is where I pray I may alight.

    I pray I never miss its sound,

    I pray I never lose its sight.

     

    Bless the soil, embrace its glory

    In it toil, to know its story.

    Bless the soil and feel its virtue,

    That, I know, is what heals and hurts you.

     

    Bless the soil, it is your love

    Do not recoil to the clouds above.

    Bless the soil, then let it be

    And let it go and set it free.

     

    For months I’ve watched it lying still,

    I keep it underneath my arms

    I keep it for a time until

    I can no more keep it from harm.

     

    Know the earth and its refulgence

    See its turn so bright and fleeting.

    Rest and wake in its indulgence,

    So the ground I kneel entreating.

     

     

    Bless the soil, embrace its glory

    In it toil, to know its story.

    Bless the soil and feel its virtue,

    That, I know, is what heals and hurts you.

     

    Bless the soil, it is your love

    Do not recoil to the clouds above

    Bless the soil, then let it be

    Then let it go and set it free.

     

    And if one day you’re forced to flee

    And of this land you are bereft,

    Take solace in its memory—

    The only panacea left.

     

    My love for it runs pure and deep,

    I hope one day to it it’s known.

    I hope one day it lets me reap

    The seeds I know I should have sown.

     

    So bless the soil, embrace its glory,

    And in it toil, so you may know its story.

    Bless the soil and feel its virtue,

    For that, I know, is what heals and hurts you.

     

    Bless the soil, it is your love.

    And do not recoil to the sky above.

    Bless the soil, then let it be

    And bear the pain till it runs to thee.

     

     

     

     

     

    About The Author

    Dean Hathout

    Dean is in his senior year at a high school in California. Of North African heritage, Mr. Hathout has loved poetry ever since he can remember, and in his words states, “I have been reading it since I could read, and writing it since I could write. I enjoy both English and Arabic poetry. I’m somewhere between free verse and rhymed meter, [preferring] my poems to have a bit of structure. My other great love is mathematics, where I am a published author. I see a great common ground between poetry and math, even though most people think them disparate. However, I see great similitude in their harmony and structure. My poetry often deals with the theme of trying to hold on to my heritage.”