I often used to look at my grandmother
Mending my grandfather’s clothes, torn and tattered.
She worked it out with such perfection
That one would think it was a fashionable trend.
My grandfather,frizzy-haired like Einstein
Would smoke his pipe looking at the glowing embers.
I would sit close by them
With delight unalloyed eating grilled corn.
My grandfather was a social worker
With the least tinge of capriciousness
And calculations on the war of interests.
I was diligently learning from him
The basic rules of our reality,
The law of cause and effect,
The proven crimes against humanity
Affecting all en masse, en chute libre,
The benefits of a well-balanced livelihood
And the meaning of our existence,
Vivre, comment vivre et surtout pourquoi vivre.
With my critical thinking and investigation,
I feel that many times we are living
In a labyrinth of illusion with bated breath,
Suffice to say in one word, misery.
Why can’t we mend our hearts
The way my grandmother mended
The garments of my grandfather
Scissoring out the worn and the torn
In a creative and generous style,
Cut and paste……………….would you call it?