Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st
 
 
THE DEAD DO NOT TELL TALES
 
The dead do not tell tales
But we, under the darkening weather,
Count crestfallen flowers in wither,
Where elimination method never fails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, under the oppressive winds,
Who witness the lightening hands,
Stike those ineligible for bails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, heavily beaten by rains,
Know the weights of the grains
Of the mustard seed still in sails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
For the cases always win the dead
Whose their tongues are now dead,
But we who aren’t yet behind rails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who witness the scene
Of the untold dark tale seen,
Cock’s mouth kills cock, in gales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the truth is indeed free;
And will fight for the liberty,
No tyrant puts the truths in jails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the trees are the witnesses,
And so are all the green grasses,
Witnessed those whose names quail.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who stand for the truths
Even in the eye of our deaths,
Where lies trade for wholesales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, who in sufferance endure
What evil seemingly fail to cure,
And in silence suffer the bales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who in the evil present,
Choose the better evil absent,
And murmur under the chainwales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who who behold evils,
And with the disguised devils,
Laugh where the dusk quails.
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who, tired of seeing,
And we who, tired of feeling,
Pluck the papers and quills.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who still breathe,
And with our dying breaths,
Seek to right wrongs in pales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we all the beloved causalities,
Who escaped the arms of atrocities,
That plucks and leaves teary trails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who survived the shuffle,
And with tears still sniffle,
For the cat plucks the rats’ tails.
The dead do not tell tales,
But we all the living wounded,
Whose children were pounded,
Sit to write down their tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we whose mothers went to glory,
And fought and won battles in gory,
Sit to pen down our own tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
Those who the lion gladly ate,
And were so soon called the late,
But we who the God still hails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we the cheated who gladly
Wail, and later laugh sadly,
Our eyes make waters of pails.
The dead do not tell tales,
Verily, verily; never in graves,
And those now turned soul slaves,
All must strive to fill these dales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
Those who half done oft go,
For now the dead don’t do,
We tell their tales in vales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who behind them are left,
They who for whom we sadly wept,
Let no stone unturned to digging rales.
 
 
The dead do not tell tales,
For they say not who slay them,
Their consciences perish with them,
But we whose mouths pluck tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we the schemes coldly touch,
As the thief at night doth punch,
Soon most wanted alive or dead.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
Their truths are twisted beyond,
Their properties are soon gone,
And they shan’t tell the tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the living even in lion’s dens
Wake up to pick up their gold pens,
And look the lion in the eye stale.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the brave who hunt the lion,
Even in the Jerusalem or Zion,
And do not wear truth’s veils.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
And many went with their truths,
For they feared to open their mouths,
But they all went with their tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
What great silence do all keep,
Bedridden where they all sleep,
Watching evils reign, can tell no tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, while our suns still shine,
With vigors, must rise to wind
The wheels of truths in the tales.
 
©Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st
 
 
 
Listen Beloved
 
Listen my Beloved,
My beards
Tell me daily
Children have given
Birth to big men
With beards everywhere
Standing on the humps
Of the breasts of the earth,
Apples of my eyes
Kept from the sweltering days,
And their fires burn steadily
Like the love of God.
©Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st
My Father’s Dying Will
 
Son,
You see that big tree?
That big tree
With floating beards,
That tree belongs to us,
And that big tree
Standing arrogantly,
That tree boarders our land,
The land belongs to our ancestors;
Stretching from that big fig tree
Up to the eye of the well
Of the Late Marino Lol;
That land is not for sale.
 
Son,
This home,
This home has five wives,
Including your mother
And your other mothers,
And if I die,
This home will be yours,
And everything in it.
 
My son,
This stool,
This stool is ours,
This stool where I sit,
Leaning my grey head
Back on the skin of leopard,
This stool is yours
When I go to Pagak,
Stand for those you lead:
You’re the Olango thorn
Budding from my stump.
 
©Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st
 
 
 
THE DEAD DO NOT TELL TALES
 
The dead do not tell tales
But we, under the darkening weather,
Count crestfallen flowers in wither,
Where elimination method never fails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, under the oppressive winds,
Who witness the lightening hands,
Stike those ineligible for bails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, heavily beaten by rains,
Know the weights of the grains
Of the mustard seed still in sails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
For the cases always win the dead
Whose sound tongues are now dead,
But we who aren’t yet behind rails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who witness the scene
Of the untold dark tale seen,
Cock’s mouth kills cock, in gales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the truth is indeed free;
And will fight for the liberty,
No tyrant puts the truths in jails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the trees are the witnesses,
And so are all the green grasses,
Witness those whose names quail.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who stand for the truths
Even in the eye of our deaths,
Where lies trade for wholesales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, who in sufferance endure
What evils seemingly fail to cure,
And in silence suffer the bales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who in the evil present,
Choose the better evil absent,
And murmur under the chainwales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who still behold evils,
And with the disguised devils,
Laugh where the dusk quails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who, tired of seeing,
And we who, tired of feeling,
Pluck the papers and quills.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who still breathe,
And with our dying breaths,
Seek to right wrongs in pales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we all the beloved causalities,
Who escaped the arms of atrocities,
That plucks and leaves teary trails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who survived the shuffle,
And with tears still sniffle,
For the cat plucks the rats’ tails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we all the living wounded,
Whose children were pounded,
Sit to write down their tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we whose mothers went to glory,
And fought and won battles in gory,
Sit to pen down our own tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
Those who the lion gladly ate,
And were so soon called the late,
But we who the God still hails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we the cheated who gladly
Wail, and later laugh sadly,
Our eyes make waters of pails.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
Verily, verily; never in graves,
And those now turned soul slaves,
All must strive to fill these dales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
Those who half done oft go,
For now the dead don’t do,
We tell their tales in vales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we who behind them are left,
They who for whom we sadly wept,
Let no stone unturned to digging rales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
For they say not who slay them,
Their consciences perish with them,
But we whose mouths pluck tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we the schemes coldly touch,
As the thief at night doth punch,
Soon most wanted alive or dead.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
Their truths are twisted beyond,
Their properties are soon gone,
And they shan’t tell the tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the living even in lion’s dens
Wake up to pick up their gold pens,
And look the lion in the eye stale.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But the brave who hunt the lion,
Even in the Jerusalem or Zion,
And do not wear truth’s veils.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
And many went with their truths,
For they feared to open their mouths,
But they all went with their tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
What great silence do all keep,
Bedridden where they all sleep,
Watching evils reign, can tell no tales.
 
The dead do not tell tales,
But we, while our suns still shine,
With vigors, must rise to wind
The wheels of truths in the tales.
 
©Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st
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