By Julius Marc Taborete
Poetry

Youth
wakes up at dawn to sweep
the brown multitudes of the Fall.

Youth plants the fertile soil, reaping
the withered land and pours
spite of rise on gray expanse.

Youth is the pollen of our prime—
disperses through the sky,
never pulled back from ancestral gravity.

Youth
spews parts of our best days;
swooping the flesh of fading ritual
in a feast of the age of rising sun.

Youth
does not heed the silence
of vestige; in scaffolding of the melody
of the Sun and Stars.

Youth
is just our history,
a mirage in distortion of reality; an induction
to the surreal slums of life. Ancestors,
as they would say,

“Youth
is the gift of nature but age
is the work of art.” Hues of

youth
cascade from the canvas of tradition,
depleting the fountain
of the past.

Youth
has not stepped on the shadows
of 1972; the freedom we once
quenched,
now has the brimful of the

youth.
As mirrors reflect the wrinkle
of time, old is still new. Has

youth
been the roots of The fallen bough?
Ah! The dawn has come
and so as the

youth
comes to sweep the last
leaf to plant a
new tree.