THE CONCEALED MIRTH

We hear that God loves man so much.
That's why He gives him life on earth.
But pain and grief that poor man clutch.
Where is that love? Where is the mirth?

If life is a struggle from the start
and worry makes it hard to live,
the mirth in it will fall apart,
and death destroys what mirth can give.

That's not the case if we think deep
and deem the life of a tranquil soul.
Through his soul, man great pleasure can reap
and get the joy he will extol.

A man can live the greatest joy
when he explores the depth of faith,
the pure joy that none can alloy
and that starts man's bliss from this earth.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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THE RIFLE AND THE FLUTE

I took my rifle and l went
to nearby forest birds to hunt.
When l got there, l saw a bird
whose chick fell down through sad event.

The hen was flying with a cane;
it hovered where its chick was thrown.
It urged the chick to perch on it,
but it was too young to have known.

I held the chick and placed in nest,
and its mum set its mind at rest.
It twittered and gave me the cane
and flew to nest with heart so blessed.

I threw my rifle on the ground,
returned with that gift in my hand,
with a happy heart that blessed my act,
and a cane on lips with greatest sound.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH

EACH IN TURN

All my heart is with those who are sad,
Swallowing their tears with their own bread.
Like red hot nails pierce me their sad sighs
Though they're not nigh my sad, downcast eyes.

I extend my weak hand for their needs,
but my hand is short, and weak my deeds.
I can't compensate what fate has marred
as l am by weakness fully barred.

We are throngs of men, each one in turn
sheds his tears for what we can't return.
Time goes fast and we can't do a thing,
save those tears when that sad toll will ring.

Why don't we extend the hand of help,
dry the tears of those who need that step?
Our eyes will weep and need that hand,
which all creatures wait for to expand.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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WHERE IS THAT VOICE ?

He sits neglected in the hall,
a little soldier, weak and small.
He was the captain of the troop,
but now despised by all the group.

Are hearts of people changed to flint ?
They care for empty pride to sate.
A crime with pleasure they commit
as long as they can self acquit.

Is there no voice inside to shout
and wake them during their dark night?
Is that voice silenced when they eat
to mix food with tears in their plate ?

It's said that man is soft and kind.
Where is that man ? Is he on land ?
The man l see likes just to show
an outer love, but hate below.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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THE SUPERMAN

The superman is that who can
Stand with the feeble in their pain.
He can't bear meeting broken hearts
too shattered to stand by themselves.

He can't see eyes with tears inside,
mainly those eyes that tears have hurt,
or eyes that in vain try to hide
their tears but redness shows their pain.

He stands with those that life has harmed
while they can't cope to hide disgrace.
They do their best, but their short arms  
Can't hide what harshness has misplaced.

The superman will never care
where his support will ever lead.
He sees his heart is quite involved
in drying tears and planting cheers.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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STEERED BY HIS OWN WILL

They are a group of men on board a boat.
All are adrift except the one who steers.
They look at him and go the way he goes,
waiting his hands to find their chosen course.

He chooses his own way as it can suit his heart.
He might be wrong, but that's what his heart says:
that's what the throbs of his true heart would drum,
not what his whims impose on him to cull.

His fellow men on board the sailing boat
repose and wait for what their helmsman's hands will do.
They look with such pleased eyes at distant looming isles,
and can sunbathe on board with cheerful smiles.

He stands with active mind so crammed with care.
He barely sleeps or rests , and dreams awake,
exhausted, yes, but glad the boat will sail
where his hands steer and wish to move the wheel.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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