This phrase error—, failure
Has hurried all our endeavours
And there is no tranquilization
We deal with jagged edges
Of life, willingly
Without any refuse.
As long as a day passes by
By conjuring a way to disappear
In the evening's dusk
Its crux collects the remains of
The painful bits of a long day.
My heart skips a beat
To the wailing siren down the street
Lending sound and substance to that fear.
The fear in my heart perhaps
Is what only Mugabe
Can gloss over.
With the flame of the candle gone
I sat in the gloomy shack.
And cried tears of pain, of hunger,
Of how young children are dying.
They are just kids—, in poverty!
Tiny, empty stomachs—
We are so hungry, not just for food
But for some fresh thoughts
To such a freedom.
Depressed, estranged, ungrown sons.
Like spectres of a famous fable, we live,
In crannies where light fails to reach us.
Living in time-speeds,
That reverses computation.
Where ideologues live—
To wilt and dissipate—
Under Mugabe's butcheries.
Like synaptic connections are unlearned—
And thickened by experience
We who are older can live
Below our older layers.
But we would cry out aloud,
If we could.
archive - issue 9