The Anchor And The Chain

Let clod feet mire in mud
As old ideas of old men;
Whose dying breath calls out
For pity

I have been a sorry fool
Who, in life, took vindictiveness
And hate for others to new heights
And lows.

It is the Anchor and the Chain
Like fetters, drew me down
Into the murky depths
Of prejudice.

Whereof my sense of self superior?
When you, my African nurse
Are last to witness me in illness
And isolation.

You draw the blanket to my chin
And with kind dark eyes say,
"There, there", and, as patiently,
Hear my confession.