Wits for the Wise.

Hold on tears son,
Crying over little inadequacies:
Is no use.
Just rays of the rising sun they are,
The worst are yet to happen--
By the time it sets...

You came whilst innocent,
But life will make you cross paths,
Thence be guilty of everything when leaving.
Grey you'll go waiting for golden opportunities--
They hardly come forth,
Unless you opt for backdoors:
To easily grasp them.

You will meet women,
Whose hearts are as dry as the Sahara--
No seed of love you can sow to grow.
You will meet women,
With hearts hard like a cashew;
And no magipower of seduction can through break them.
But your heart shall cry and die,
For a place in their sacred lives...

Sometimes you'll chance upon angels--
Their hearts so cool like fresh milk,
So men slay each other over them!
You'll have to choose love or death.
If you love my son,
Mess not with an angel--
You'll be courting disaster.
But if you choose death:
Then die a matyr of a love so worthwhile...

Strive to survive under the sun,
Nothing freely is acquired,
But be wary of your ways--
The road doesn't tell he who on it walks,
Our people say.
Lest you're crippled by thorns and stumps,
That invisibly await you impatiently...

By all means,
Learn every man's language:
To grasp what his heart speaks,
For and against you;
But by dictates of your heart act.

(c) Wafula p' Khisa