ciled, the bitter gourd.
(They will gather, the true clouds of spilt blood you shed,
a flood to drown your eternities.)
Dry thorn round the heart’s kraal
whose eyes open no welcome doors
forbidding the traveller’s return.
You are not guardian at the house of stone
who once won the hungry freedom from bread of praise.
– My dog is a truer custodian of home
and will always greet the friendly stranger from beyond.
Who is your god, I wonder;
the mirror of the camera’s applause
from oudated lenses redundant with bad light that bends to serve you
proving relativity an inconstant excuse.
Or is the echo of death on the march
your obedient army of yes knowing no contradiction
dares defy you.
The brain-washed are the castrated citizens
that camp outside your castle walls
and beg for miracles.
But you hear no melody of thought for me
Just as you hear no children cry
in the desert burning of your scorching lies,
oracle of emptiness,
poisoned spider spinning,
subtle-tongue, hissing sand-snake
to the decaying feast without change.
Father of all lies, you possess a thousand names;
“Interception of Communications Bill”
The Fuhrer. The Future Fallen.
No, now I WILL PROPHESISE
“- The wiping of dust off our children’s feet
From the tears of their murdered ancestors ammassed.
Our children will spit on your unhallowed grave
Non-hero. The Most-High Corrupt.”
My one regret, mungu, is how you destroyed all Eden’s innocence.
Even your viper’s brood will know this. – Bart Wolffe C. 2006