Before the first road was cleared,
Before coins learned their names,
The elders spoke of a mountain,
Where every soul received a piece of work,
To carry through life.
Some carried hoes,
Some carried books,
Some carried hammers,
Some carried only kind words,
The mountain judged none of them by weight.
Among the Baluba people it is said:
“Bumwe budi buloba”
(Unity Is Strength)
Yet many walked alone,
Thinking a higher place meant a greater life.
Then rose the cities of shining glass,
People began wearing titles,
Like crowns borrowed for a festival,
Many polished their names,
While their hearts gathered dust.
One traveller climbed every ladder,
Each step brought applause,
Each victory filled another room,
Yet every night,
His own spirit waited outside the door.
Another traveller walked slowly,
She shared her bread,
She rested beneath trees,
She lifted strangers,
Without asking their names.
People laughed at her,
“She will never become important.”
She smiled,
The river does not hurry,
Yet every village drinks from it.
Years passed,
The first traveller owned buildings,
But no quiet sleep,
The second owned little,
Yet children ran toward her,
As though she carried the morning.
One evening,
Both reached the end of the road,
No one asked,
“How many offices did you enter?”
A single voice asked,
“Whose burden became lighter because you lived?”
The mountain opened once more,
The old wind spoke without anger:
“Work was never your master”,
“It was only the walking stick”,
“Meant to help you reach home.”
Then every title fell like dry leaves,
Every badge,
Every key,
Every locked door,
Became smaller than a grain of sand.
Only kindness remained standing,
Only truth remembered every footprint,
Only love crossed the last bridge,
And the spirit walked on,
Lighter than when it first received its load from the mountain.
