Do not ask why

But as I took off and did fly

My wings splayed

Cruising through information highway

I found somnolent History

Wrapped up in mystery

Looking Like a giant serpent

Lying coiled in the middle

Of the street.

Then I asked:

Why is History,

As usual wrapped up in misery,

Lying in the middle of the information gyratory?

The answer I got,

Was occult not,

Nor difficult to speculate.

This was done,

By those who are able to write

And store knowledge,

Generation come,

Generation gone.

Thereof History lies,

In the middle of the road,

For anyone to read,

And someone to add to its load.

As expected, some kept loading a bit over the top,

Beyond History can cope.

Some historiographer loaded lies,

In fact, too much lies,

Naked and dry,

History feels exposed and shy.

Some who did not get the chance

To put their marks,

Kicked and trod

History, flat to the ground -

Regrettably, this fine delectable beauty made of words.

Still others with high engine power,

Rode over the back of the crispy chapters,

And History lay wounded,

In the middle of surging flash flood,

Covered in blood,

Its red, black and blue purple alphabets blurred and stained with mud.

In the Information memory spot,

For the record,

There remains a small dot,

That some in the past,

Did try to get

History back on its feet.

But they found to their

Disappointment

That the task was daunting enough to lift.

And in despair,

They abandoned the efforts

But in the process they left

History further damaged beyond repair.

It looks now History is

Gasping for air,

And it needs long and sturdy rode,

To pull it out from this miserable and swingeing memory road,

Before its gets yet another ride roughshod over

And get trod.

Copyright Haileselassie Girmay

4/1/98