With a hat on his head,
Blue and red,
Eshu strolled down the path
On the village thread

Each on one side of the road,
Thought his own to be true
In their wise folly,
They sought to make it known.

They argued, fought, maimed
Minds they subjugated
In broken cages, mental boxes
Of ideologies, perspectives.

Forcing their view on others
Each echoed his true way
Forgetting the view of others
on the other side of the road.

Until one climed up a tree
And glanced at eshu's trickery
Only then could they see
There are numerous paths to a story.

What is the root of your reality?
Are they chains bound to folly?
For like the press we are quick to judge
Without defence or a jury.