Resting
by Charles Nkoho
He rested
on the seventh day.
Not because
He could not do more,
but because He was satisfied
with what He had done.
Likewise,
I am resting on this day
when I was born.
Not because I cannot do more,
but because the life I have built so far
is the greatest source of joy of all.
No greater feeling
than sitting alone
trying not to smile loudly
for the things achieved long time ago.
Contentment I hear
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it is called.
Even happiness bows
in front of that mighty warrior.
And life,
hiding its tears,
is forced to applaud
because its shackles
although strong
could not keep this human low.
And death,
with sadness on its face,
has to admit that
its day and time of arrival
no longer matter
because this life of mine
is already a golden mine.
And its fruits will ripple
through spacetime and far more
long after I am gone.
