The Writer

[Bantu Chauke 2]

I often ponder the origins of my literary journey,
Wrapped in speculation, I marvel,
To whom do I owe the deepest gratitude,
Not only for myself, but also for the audacious souls,
Who graced existence before my time?

Through the passages of time, they sought immortality,
Through the ethereal medium of words.

I have ceremoniously trespassed into the minds,
Of history's revered figures,
Bearing witness to their trials, sailing with pioneers,
Tasting the hopeful breeze while strolling the shores of wisdom.

It is through words that the three realms intertwine,
Engraved upon the solid walls of consciousness,
Monuments for self-reflection and self-discovery.

In the realm of wonder, I stumble upon Pride and Delight,
Guided to a path where Awakening dwells,
There, I realize my childhood dreams,
Of traversing the world, all realized,
Through the passing of words.

Blushing at my own applause, I am swiftly reminded,
Of the recent adventure that propelled my existence,
To distant lands, guided by the finest prose,
To incarcerate my mind.

Through words, I strive for a seat,
Amongst History's esteemed companions,
A guest at Immortality's grand feasts.

Life stands naked without sharing,
What better way to share than to leave behind,
Writings that witness life's bittersweet theatricals,

For a lioness leaves her footprints upon the earth,
Announcing her presence amongst the pride,
Her roar echoing through time.

Indeed, a reader lives a thousand lives,
But a writer, ah, a writer lives forever.