Beaton Galafa - The Quest

A cloud of uncertainty,
The wearied heart trampled on with bare swollen feet;
An apocalypse for the ants
Heavy sighs forward I marched.
A lamb on an offering,
That accompanied the sad rumour
A nymph that made a perfect niche.

Blisters kept battling the underneath of my hoofs,
And forward I limped,
Marching with energy on thorns and stones,
Holding my torso high above the war heroes,
Sometimes terribly frozen like captains
Oates and Scotts in the pole’s prime youth.
To the Far East I marched,
The brain imagining a femme fatale waiting,
A torpedo in hand if by chance
They were somehow right.

Ignorant of what Canaan held for the impatient slave,
I trod through the desert ducking dogs so wild.
The subservient heart ignored my commands, pumping
And from afar I saw the starlight on the camp,
The thought of my first battle stroke;
Negro pilots that never flew in battle,
One chance and they stroke like Hiroshima ages after,
And I felt stronger than ever...

Beaton Galafa

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-quest-41/