Hubert Edem Mishio

22/10/2025

Dzogbe Letivi

I rose where thunder braided the sky,
Where drums of sorrow refused to die.
Born with fire behind my eyes,
Dzogbe Letivi, light in disguise.

The earth was cracked, the nights were cold,
But my spirit danced in stories old.
Grandmother's chants in morning dew,
Said, “Light walks strong where blades once flew.”

I drank from pots of broken dreams,
Yet wisdom flowed through hidden streams.
The gods carved maps upon my skin,
A child of stars, born deep within.

I walk through fire but do not burn,
From sacred wounds, I rise and learn.
Not every war is fought with blade.
Some with truth that shadows fade.

I am the voice in silence found,
A sacred foot upon cursed ground.
The storm may roar, the sky may fall,
But still I rise, in spite of all.

Dzogbe Letivi, name of flame,
Not just a soul, but ancient name.
Let the world know when I appear,
The battle ends, the light draws near.

09/10/2025

The name “God” once sacred has, over the centuries, become one of the most misused tools by deceivers.

Backed by countless examples, it has often served as the easiest weapon for manipulation:

• To scam the desperate,
• To amass wealth,
• To seduce even the married,
• To tear apart homes and families,
• And to spiritually abuse countless believers.

This so-called most powerful and holy name has, ironically, been used to exploit the innocent and many have walked away from faith altogether, not because they stopped believing, but because they were betrayed in its name.

One can’t help but wonder,
Has God, the Creator, been gravely misrepresented?
And if so,
What hope remains for the flock that still follows blindly, never daring to question?

07/10/2025

Agbonugla, The Gate Keeper

He stands where silence splits the sky,
Between the drumbeat and the cry.
With eyes of ash and heart of flame,
Agbonugla knows each spirit’s name.

He holds no sword, yet none pass by,
Without his nod or sacred sigh.
The winds obey his whispered call,
He is the gate, the wall, the fall.

His staff is carved from ancient lore,
It hums with echoes gone before.
A thousand footsteps, none are lost,
He weighs each soul he bears the cost.

The river bends beneath his gaze,
He sees the dawn in midnight haze.
With cowries strung across his chest,
He guards the path where spirits rest.

O Seer of roads the eyes can't see,
He unlocks dreams with mystic key.
Between the world of breath and dust,
He keeps the truth, he holds the trust.

Not every knock shall earn reply,
Not every flame is meant to fly.
But those who walk with heart so pure,
Shall find the gate and walk secure.

23/09/2025

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23/09/2025

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14/09/2025

Art is Never in a Rush

Art is never in a rush,
It waits beneath the silent hush.
It grows like roots beneath the ground,
Unseen, unheard but deeply bound.

It doesn't chase the fleeting trend,
Its purpose bends, but will not bend.
A whisper carved in stone or clay,
It speaks when noise has gone away.

Brush by brush and beat by beat,
It walks with bare and sacred feet.
Not made to race, nor built to shout,
But shaped by time, both firm and stout.

So let it breathe, and let it bloom,
Not every flower fights for room.
Art knows its path, its weight, its worth
Not rushed, but rooted deep in earth.

12/09/2025

12/09/2025

Let’s be clear, no one is stopping you from having an opinion. Everyone is entitled to one.
But in expressing your views, be conscious not to belittle or demean others.
You may be speaking from a place of privilege without realizing it.

The fingers on our hands are not the same size a simple truth that reflects a deeper reality:
We are not all born with the same opportunities, resources, or circumstances.

There are thousands, possibly millions including dedicated public servants who have never laid eyes on certain sums of money, much less had them in their accounts.
This isn’t due to laziness or lack of ambition. It’s often the result of systemic limitations, unequal access, and pure chance.

If you have been privileged to rise above, congratulations.
But success should never become a weapon to shame others.

Careless remarks or flashy posts may seem harmless to you,
but they are contributing to a dangerous narrative one where young people believe that if they haven’t “made it” by 30, they are failures.
This mindset has pushed many into destructive paths, chasing validation instead of purpose.

We must do better.
The goal in life is not reckless luxury, but dignified survival the ability to provide shelter, food, healthcare, and peace of mind.
Let’s speak with humility, act with compassion, and remember that lifting others is greater than showing off what you’ve gained.

06/09/2025

Title: Dunning-Kruger

I climbed a peak I thought was tall,
Declared I’d mastered every wall.
With little learned and less to show,
I crowned myself, how could I know?

The louder voice, the smaller clue,
I thought I knew what scholars knew.
But wisdom whispered from the ground,
Where quiet minds and truth are found.

For those who know, they doubt the most,
Not ones who rush to raise a toast.
The sharpest minds are slow to boast,
Their knowledge deep but never grossed.

I wore my pride like armored skin,
Blind to the cracks that lay within.
'Til humbled by a wiser view,
I saw how much I never knew.

Now I unlearn to understand,
And leave behind the high command.
For real ascent begins with grace,
When ego yields to learning's pace.

21/08/2025

Mishio, the Kpoɖzitɔ

Mishio, the Kpoɖzitɔ,
Child of fire, voice of dawn,
You rise when drums are calling,
When all hope seems gone.

Born not of fear, but vision,
Like Tsali who walked the storm,
You carry words like sacred stones,
To break and to transform.

You’ve seen the land of silence,
Where dreams are buried deep,
And there, you lit the fire
That wakes the souls from sleep.

Kpo! You saw the sorrow.
ɖzi! You rose with might.
You speak the name of ancestors
When others lose their sight.

You wear no crown of gold,
Yet kingdoms know your flame.
The wind has heard your whisper
The earth repeats your name.

Mishio, the Kpoɖzitɔ,
Not of sword, but staff and song.
Your path is carved in spirit,
Where the brave and broken belong.

You walk like Ewe elders,
Barefoot in sacred dust,
Carrying healing in your shadow,
And justice in your trust.

From Notsie’s fallen towers
To shrines beside the sea,
You call the lost, restore the weak

Your voice, a living key.

So rise, O Mishio, rise again,
With agbã in your chest.
The people wait, the spirits nod
You were born to bless.