I was the grain in the heart of the chaff,
Left, forgotten and gnashing in silent agony,
Forty days crawled with the feet of a snail,
And through forty dark nights, I stood a lonely sentinel.
The chaff wrapped me like the chains of Paul,
Maggots carved their dwelling in my flesh,
I screamed like a woman in travail,
Yet my voice lay buried in the silence of the grave.
Then a light broke forth, not whispering but calling,
Jesus Christ, it was you tearing through my darkness,
Not with the sword, or might,
But Your life, Your death and Your resurrection.
You scattered the chaff that veiled my face,
You Stretched forth your hand, and I touch eternity,
The decay within me trembled at your presence,
You made my being whole after rapture.
You are the Sun that drives away the darkness,
Your life is joy, your death a raging storm,
And your resurrection the sun that creates dawn,
You reconciled the chaff and poor me forever.
Happy Easter O poor chaffs,
Seek ye the light, not the might! Poet S. L. A. Salvatore
April 04, 2026
It’s Not in Possessing All Answers
It’s not cleverness,
It’s not possessing all answers,
Wisdom is humility and honest inquiry,
Pursuing truth with all bombs.
Socrates was considered wise,
Not because of his extensive knowledge,
Surely not because he could answer everything,
But for admitting his epistemic ignorance.
Wisdom is not in the answers,
It is in the flood of honest questions,
Genuine inquiry after Truth,
It’s not in sophistry nor pomposity.
I know that I do not know,
I am still searching, and inquiring,
Examining my life, our life and our world,
Because the unexamined life is not worth living.
The Only Thing I have: Learning!
It is soon that I realized something strange,
I was chasing the wind not real friendships,
I find the only girlfriend I had was education,
The only dating appointments were examinations.
Every attitude pondered in the heart was vain,
Every future hoped for was an illusion,
Then I say, in the storm of my plight,
I have chased a wind that was in motion.
Soon did I become aware of what I have,
Pens, books, and my lovely HP Computer,
All around me were all fables and phantasies,
At the end of this tunnel, I wept and cried.
I will stop playing safe and run after my dream,
That one day, my voice will reverberate in halls,
My mind and heart will inspire learning from lecture podiums,
Only I have to stop chasing what is not mine!
Achulube the Greedy Rat!
He stays in the mansion, treks on highways,
His abode is a developed city, a luxurious ambience,
Yet Achulube is sitting on Noliok and Noloseru,
They are rats but have become indifferent.
Achulube is the Chief rat, the decision maker,
He is the bourgeoisie, the wealthy ruler of the plebs,
Reigning over a kingdom of empty-bellied rats,
Achulube is arrogant, corrupt, discriminative but lazy.
The soil drinks blood in many parts of his Kingdom,
The vultures are fattened, they clap for Achulube,
On their roads, Noliok and Noloseru are trapped,
Their countless efforts to develop their city goes in vain.
Their roads remain panya in the mundane,
They hope for better days, but see the empty blue sky,
Darkness, turmoil and inferiority complex wreck,
Achulube in the White House, pays no attention to them.
Until the day the rats forgot their lives,
To fight for services, they deserve,
To restore the dignity of all rats, and build an empire
Achulube’s tongue was cut before execution, a lesson so hard!
Here comes the time for the new Rats’ city,
One built on solidarity, equality, hard work and harmony,
Highways, fly overs, tarmacs and every good a city deserves,
Freedom became real, and thirst for dev’t fulfilled.
Think! You, greedy bastard, nothing is permanent,
Forever enter the nightmare, the nostalgia,
Speak to your mind, while you live,
We are all rats; no rat is better than another.
The hills of Torit
Stand like elders who never forget.
They know your footsteps,
the dust you raised when running after hope,
the sweat you poured when life tasted like war.
They whisper your name
even when the world refuses to hear you.
They echo your struggles,
your defeats,
your broken mornings
when you rose with nothing but faith in your chest.
But listen
the hills also speak blessings.
They say:
Stand child of this land,
your feet were molded for long journeys,
your spirit carved for survival.
And when the valleys drown you in fear,
climb.
The hills will remember your name,
and remind you who you are.
When God Walks Through the Grasslands️🔥
Sometimes God does not shout.
He walks through the grasslands,
soft like the morning wind in Liria,
quiet like the dew resting on the crops.
You will not hear thunder.
You will hear peace.
A peace that gathers your brokenness,
lifts it gently,
and whispers:
Move on.
Your fears will ask,
“But with what strength?”
And God will answer,
“With Mine.”
Your wounds will cry,
“But who heals us?”
And God will say,
“My hands have never failed.”
So when the grasslands move
without any wind,
know this—
God is passing through.
And He came for you.
