Toussaint’s Overture

Toussaint L’ouverture‚ the leader of the Haitian Revolution of the 1790s‚ was betrayed by a “friend” and deported to a French jail. He died during this imprisonment‚ alone and in a foreign country.

Gone now were those passion-filled days,

When calm discourse fell victimized

To gunpowder shouts and rebellious craze

While battles raged for ideas unrealized…


Gone now were those young boys’ faces

Names and bodies forever to juggle

In his mind as they moved to greener places

Bless their brave souls– away from the struggle!


Now was the time of iron-clad bars,

Risen in front of him like a looming gate

That conceals a land of velvet-kissed stars

And pleasures, pleasures of the human state!


And he thought to himself, in the darkness of night,

Cursed is the world that lets the glorious fade,

The ones who before sang with war-seasoned might,

And now are on the edges of graves displayed.


This Is Our Struggle

Because sometimes nonsensical poetry is fun to write too!

There is a history in all men’s lives.
William Shakespeare

The book well loved the most by me,

Is a book of history,

Whose dwelling on the bookshelf must

Never meet with Mr. Dust.

When Sun grows lazy ‘cross the sky,

And I wish daily things good bye,

I crack open my book and fly.


And from the hallowed binding springs

A ancient troupe of warrior kings

Voices like thunder ‘bove my head

Which heretics daresay I’m dead?

Behind them close are tenfold sages

Cascading forward from the pages

Forgotten not long are their long lost kin

Words blown like whispers through the wind

The winds of change, though still the same,

And unified they shall proclaim,

This is Our Struggle.


We may be gone, ashes and dust,

But dust remembers. It remembers how it

once licked the blood of foes,

Sick with hunger no human knows,

The feet that tripped, and fell and crawled

Are buried in its bones.

And when the ghosts of enemies past

Rise to meet once more

Both heaven and hell will cower low

‘neath the infernal roar –

This is Our Struggle.


Women, all ages from all ages,

Tumble forward from the pages,

The story of one weaves that of another,

Female fraternity, like sister like brother,

And together they cry, together they die,

Together they read their own fates in the sky­­—

Because curious strength lies in the heart of a girl,

Brief wit within and grief’s sojourn,

She’ll turn to another, always saying,

From the stars above there’ll be voices proclaiming,

This is our Struggle.


History has that magic, we say,

The power to make us think.

Well, if knowledge is power, than history

Is a doubly powerful drink.

History repeats itself, we say,

And who old enough to deny?

Pick up the pen, thou mighty man,

And write the tales of days ahead

Write the tales till you drop dead,

For making history is brave indeed,

But for those recording it – Godspeed.