An unwelcome shock to see them again,
their faces no longer a part of the place.
His memory oiled by how things were
back then, in nineteen hundred and when?

Existence now seems full of persistent
memories, though there are false ones too.
Does he rely to much on them for what to do?
When people tell him words that chime,
should he so readily comply?

Should he trust himself to think things true?
Use his knowledge or review his ideas?
Retry those memories beyond a reasonable doubt,
seek out the false ones, chuck them out?

Games of hilly chase
Lizards playing in the field
Ploughing beds as we chant songs
In crescendo the singers pick, rising and falling

Nursery beds are laid and cover
Into a hut all round to eat
Resting with a local brew
Swear rustics life is fun

Communal cordiality it breeds
Love and compassion it shows
Peace and unity it arrests
Marriage of oneness it feeds

Deeds of others are attain to fastly
Hunting is made by all as they share equally
Praying to gods for a fruitful harvest
Deposing one who breaks the communal law

Everything is relative to all habitants of rustic life
In fun we play in the sun and run in the rain
In fun we dance on the hill and climb the trees
In fun we laugh to our civility backing all form of disunity

by Martin Ijir

When I die
I hope my passing disturbs
the universe so much
that even Atlas's knees quiver