Nothing can mend my heart.
Not string and I can’t glue
It back together again.
Only do this I tell myself.
Write a poem for yourself.
That narrative is interspersed
With both despair and hope.
The meat of this country
And the fat and thirst of this land.
The silence that follows the ground
I walk on and me everywhere I go.
It is the natural habitat of poetry.
They think your voice has departed
From this world. Like the
Contours of a memoir. Providing
Me an escape from reality.
All I can say is this: once I knew
What love was and my world
Was bright and lit up like gold.
Now it is just mud season.
Litnet
ISSN 1995-5928Ingesluit LitNet Akademies
Vonani Bila
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Kommentaar
Nice imagery.