Here is a poem I’d like to share; it’s Ja poetry which I received on Blue Mountain, Jamaica, from a young Rastafarian in 1985.
The good are vulnerable
As any bird in flight,
they do not think of safety,
Are blind to possible extinction
And when most vulnerable
are most themselves.
The good are real as the sun,
Are best perceived through clouds of casual corruption
That cannot kill the luminous sufficiency
That shines on city, sea, and wilderness,
One man to another
Who yet will not accept
Responsibilities of light.
The good incline to praise,
To have the knack of seeing that
The best is no destroyed.
Although forever threatened,
The good go naked in all weathers,
And by their snakedness rebuke
The small protective sanities
That hide men from themselves.
The good are difficult to see
Though open, rare, destructible,
Always, they retain a kind of youth,
The vulnerable grace
Of any bird in flight
Content to be itself,
Accomplished master and potential victim,
Accepting what the earth or sky intends
I think that I have one or two
Among my friends.