Monday, June 28, 2010

My Son by Bhekumuzi Xolani Tshuma

My son

My heart bleeds that in your twenty third year

You have nothing to offer me

I am grieved that you have – nothing

To call your own

Even though my tear glands have dried up

My heart still weeps that destiny

Has not been kind to you


My heart weeps silent tears

That you have no place to call your own

That you have out-grown this house

I am grieved that my sweat has dried up

On you

Leaving fragile cracks of hope

My son

My heart bleeds

That I could not have offered you better

My son

My soul bleeds that you have grown

At the wrong time

Caught in an evil net as fish of the sea

My heart weeps for your generation

And the one to follow after you

For the family you shall struggle to raise

My son

My heart bleeds that:

I have nothing to offer you

But my dried up sweat and lost vision

A spirit of anger whose blazing passion has

Kindled from a little fire inside

Into a full-blown veld fire engulfs me

Born out of my frustration and yours,

My son

My heart weeps uncontrollably that

All the work of your hands and mine

Has been too little an effort to count

My heart bleeds that

Your clouds

Have no silver-lining but-grey

My son

I bleed that

I have planted a seed and reaped

Only a grain

That you have no seed to plant

What shall you reap?

What then shall be your harvest?

My son my weeping has caused dry bones

And my bleeding has caused

A wound that will not heal

My dearest son

My heart bleeds for you!

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