Mum: how are you?

As the birds sing hymns in the sky,
And the day dawn breaks forth,
She lies quet,
But peacefully, anyway
Under the red Dedza district soils,
Cast out,
And forgotten.
Shame on me.

How could they do that to my own mum?
Covering her with red dust,
Six feet from where I stand now,
Or at lunch sit?
Why throe her away,
From her own bedroom?
Why make anemies:
Of her and her matress?

All along,
Since 1962,
They were pals:
Her and her matress,
And her bed,
And her garden,
Not forgetting faithful dog Bruno,
And her soul.

Why throw her away now,
That sickness has reduced her to bone,
And nothing more to you?
She is my mum,
And Madalitso,and Donnartas.
Ye, even Prisca's.
You can't do this to my mum,
Marculatta, Rest in Peace.

Why, Mr. Village headman,
Authorise that they bury my mum,
Before there I am?
Why do that to me,
At that tender age.
I was Thirteen,
Thirteen without a mum becomes no teen,
But nothing.

Why take her away now,
That I should not see her,
Fifteen years from now.
Don't get me wrong here,
Thinking this is 2009,
It is, to me, 1993,
And the moon is June.
The Twenty-first of June.

So they did,
Take my mum away,
And father Leviano Simon cried,
Like us, his wife denied him.
Life was touch,
Without het soft touch,
And sometimes timely slap.

So how do doing mum,
Beyond the blue less sky,
Here, the way we do,
Is no better than you.
They had Mothers' day on October 15,
And I have none,
Oh, I remember, the tears are mine,
In place of my mum.

See you again, mum
Less than eighty years from now,
Our souls to hug,
And tears to collide.
The flies still cry,
For their motherful young,
Forgetting we have none.

Let me report mum,
Five years from then,
Our papa also fled,
Towards the Masanoland,
Where rest the dead,
When the soul,
Takes a frightful flight,
Some say souls cling to umbrellas.
But mine will not.