1965

 1965

The world, I think, is like a fire burning

Loud, beautiful, unpredictable, and dangerous all at the same time.

Every moment, though some we perceive as benign, make a difference.

Nothing is permanent, take for example our existence.

The world has seasons,

Of fall and winter,

Winter and fall,

Joy for many,

And sorrow for all.

The world, I think, is what you make it,

The world, is how you see it!

You can, through the eyes of Daniel in the lion’s den,

Dangerous- evil, assured of a terrible end.

You can, through the eyes of an innocent child,

Unpredictable- bright, offering all kinds of prizes,

With unknown shapes or sizes,

Each one excitingly wild, appearing only once,

To be enjoyed for a limited time, shared with others or alone,

To enjoy every experience to the fullest without fear of scorn.

Okay, a short back story;

1965 is the year my grandad left his village Mwiri in Kabale, South Western Uganda.

I spent my Christmas there last year in 2022, and one day it simply hit me how that decision has impacted me as an individual, caused my entire existence- my family, the language I speak, the school I'm in... all because this man left his village in 1965. 

Every moment, though some we perceive as benign; makes a difference. 

--for my dad  who hates sad poems.