A foreign land, with
cultures alien to
father's morning cry.
In that same land,
a room small for more, I shared
with them.
Walls from bars of rods of iron.
Perfect-perimeter window
above my head for the sun's smiles.
Not a king-sized bed, with
soft mattress for our contracted
back muscles, but
a heap of straw on a cold floor.
One hole for our dungs.
One vase to quench our thirst.
I and them, our
feet held by fetters, our
wrists bound by manacles, our
necks put in a collar of iron.
We were their criminals,
in his dungeon.
Yet, favour, a shield not
metal, made a milieu
for me to thrive, in
the dark dungeon, with foreigners
until the hour I
met the foreign king.
#Genesis 39²¹
#Psalms 105¹⁸
ÃŒYÉTIDÉ🗣️✍️
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