to us
|
who were
|
of necessary birth
|
for the earths hard
|
and thankless toil
|
silence has no meaning
|
|
there is never a feeling
|
of tranquility
|
or mere quietness
|
never a moment
|
of soundless calm
|
from within or without
|
our troubled selves
|
|
how can the clamor
|
of sounds be stilled?
|
there is no void where
|
noices can collect
|
and be made mute
|
[ ]
|
|
how indeed
|
can there be silence
|
|
when our hearts beat out
|
a sonorous beat
|
meeting the beating drums
|
of an african past
|
when our eyes shed
|
solid tears of iron blood
|
that falls on concrete ground
|
|
inside our ears
|
are the many wailing cries
|
of mysery
|
inside our bodies
|
the internal bleeding
|
of [ ] volcanos
|
inside our heads
|
the wrapped in thoughts
|
of rebellion
|
|
how can there be calm
|
when the storm is yet to come?
|
|
this unending silence
|
taut, impervious, unbending
|
not lending an ear
|
to the most delicate of sounds
|
awaits the blast of bombs
|
which man will explode
|
to break this silent bond
|
to [ ]
|
to the use to create
|
hills of soft obedience
|
where sweet-clothed sounds
|
can rebound
|
and their echoes glide
|
like a carefree bird
|
in rythmic calm
|
to a mellow
|
pure, silent space
|
|
-----------------
|
Two Sides of Silence
|
Linton Kwesi Johnson |