Friday, June 17, 2011

Son of the Drought

Son of the Drought

His hair, a hodgepodge of brown—almost red, tiny but tight knots

 Atop a thousand ringworm patches on the dry dirty-white scab

His eyes tightly shut like a green immature bean pod

Son of the drought

Eyelids strained—an undersized sheet over the big eyeballs

Face once ebony-black, now a shriveled pallid cover over the small skull

Salty dried up tears leaving cream -white streaks on his bony cheeks

Teeth tightly clung together like the jaws of a vise

Lips cracked like the dry and thirsty earth on which he now lays

Son of the drought

His ribs jutted like jagged razor wires

 Against the taut dehydrated skin—a collage of caked grime and sand

Arms—withered protrusions from the frail body

Legs like the thin stalks of the murangi

Son of the drought

Stomach bloated like a twin-pregnancy

Yet an empty den, pangs gnawing inside

His heartbeat feeble like faint whispers of a non-existent wind

Over this empty expanse of bare land

Stripped naked by the ferocious hand of the cruel sun

That has rendered these once fertile plains

Where the earth mated with the skies

And the sound of their pleasure brought forth dancing

Those were the days when wine flowed like the waters of the great African Nile

And fruit burst forth like the breasts of the Swazi queens

When the earth’s urine would flood the plains with fresh waters

Days long gone



Son of the drought

His last breath painful
like his heart’s been cut into a thousand pieces






No comments:

Post a Comment