What does it mean for hunger to birth anger in a heart
with no sign of aetiology?
A sepulchre sprouts in the stomachs of famished infants,
but no cadavers exist there.
Somewhere in the dark alcoves where men fear to tread;
a nursing mother feeds her son,
With ashes from the scorching of yesterday by the sun,
and his blackened teeth munch.
His hands are bony twigs that struggle to grasp an evasive
future. His name speaks
volumes of the tragedy of his birth; for his mother named
him ‘death’, and yet gave him life.
How do you sell hope to the hopeless in little sermons of
truth, when you practice a religion of
falsehood, and you fetter posterity in your repertoire of lies
till they drown in deceit.
A silver spoon carves a hole through the gullet of a rich kid
and he never has to suffer.
But, a boy born in the outskirts, with no metal cutlery buried
in his throat; must toil tirelessly for bread.
Who can help guide humanity’s feet back to the ancient path
where truth plastered our feet to hope?
Who can absolve the minds of men of this poisoned mind-set
and cleanse our hearts of hate?
This poem was published in the 5th Issue of PoeticAfrica magazine.
Please click here to download.
Read – Folded Arms – Amwine Treasure Mutakirwa (Uganda)
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