The Heir Poem by Boniface Mukeshimana

Three boys of a father
Were meant to inherit his mammoth reaches
As it usually is from father to son.

Yet the father set a condition:
For him someone had to roll in it
Or live like a tree in desert far from oasis.

The creed he shared with one
Obliged him to bequeath
The whole wealth to who would deserve it.

He believed in himself was a talent to preserve:
Born under the roof of destitute,
He committed to live as Machiavelli prescribed;

He borrowed a penny and never paid;
He needed gold and a safe was broken;
A neck wearing precious necklace was cut….

Success is good with piety, the first son believed;
Honesty ain't much but to avoid penalty, the second thought;
And the third was like father, fearing no blame.

The worst blame is brought by want, he fancied.
Aren't churches built with billions of coins?
How many they call influential persons with a void in purse?

At the creed the man found his "right" son
Upon whom the whole wealth befell;
And for poverty were his brothers found good.

A day had to come and the old man passed away;
With nothing as heritage the first son wrought hard,
And his accounts became like the flowers of May;
The second to develop had some delay;
The heir to the wealth and such manners
Broke into thugs' den, who made believe to be miners,
And it was his last day.