Poetry: The Sword in the Stone

 

The legend of the sword stone they told

Though – 

I’ve lived long enough

To know it was not just another tale

Men travelled from far and wide

To try their luck with the sword

Others with the rock

Or perhaps both – 

Because the two were inseparable

Some came with might

Some with spells

Others only with faith

Yet all wanting the crown

The sword dared not move an inch

The stone dared not loosen its grip

The sun rose and rose again

More men came

Just as they came, they left

With the same results – 

With no results

Then came one last man

A man of a god

Or perhaps a god of a man

And yet in the eyes of men

There was nothing fascinating about him – 

His eyes were dull

His height was 5’6”

And his head almost bald

And yet those gifted with a third eye

Could see there was more to him

They saw – 

They saw that when he spoke people listened

They saw that he valued all men the same

They saw that he could not tell gold and silver apart

They saw that he had taken no life

They saw that he gave life – 

To those with life

And to those without alike

The man – the god – slowly reached for the sword

And lifted it from the rock

As swiftly as though he had practiced it for eternity

The crowd marveled

The wind carried the news

The land has a new king!

The people were fascinated

Oh, but not for long

They soon began to find fault

The elders said he was not one of them

Although he spoke the same tongue as them

The men said he was not strong enough

The women said he did not walk like a king

The children said he scared them

They spoke among themselves

And decided – 

He did not fit the shoes of a king

They made him a choice

To yield the sword

Or die by its edges

He did not live to make a choice

They slain him anyway 

And tossed his lifeless body into the sea

Perhaps because a tomb

Would always be a reminder

That they killed a king – 

They killed a god.

But the land still needed a king

Hence, they gave the sword to another man – 

A man different from them

His skin had no color

And his tongue was different

He was not one of them

Perhaps this is why they chose him – 

They did not trust each other with the sword

I try to figure out what is worse

The fact that they gave away their freedom

Or the fact that they did not even know it

Once in a while

They gather at the sea

Hoping the waves will bring back their king

Perhaps things would be much better with him, they think

Of course, he won’t come back

But the people live in hope

Ironical, isn’t it?

You kill your only hope

And then the hope kills you

~Brand

(Inspired by Thomas Sankara; neocolonialism and beyond)