Poetry Bulawayo

  Image - madamenoire.com The water was boiling And my mind was racing, With bitterness, sadness, resilience And the thoughts of the times shared. A thin line in between Me and her Them and us Love and sacrifice And the stupidity that occupied my mind, As I carried the bucket of hot water to the very room it first begun. It was a surprise And yes it skipped a beat Torn and tarnished Its existence vanished To the silence in between Me and her Them and us Love and sacrifice I blacked out, it was too much to handle. A rhythm of sadness I thought, as my eyes closed.

Image - http://www.clubmadrid.org/sspblog/?p=766 If only these thirsty soldiers would stop sipping our blood from the calabash of chaos If only these resounding voices of those guns would fade Then we can call this place home And continue to gather around those breasts that nursed us And not play the sojourner's flute like a Fulani in the Sahara And not allow innocent blood to curse this land We can call this place home We can feel the breeze again like our childhood never walked away And gaze endlessly at the smiling sun This is perfect a place A place we can call home So our children can be proud and dust themselves whilst building their castles in the sand A place we can call home That our wives will love in peace And I dream of a good place A place we can call home