BY RICHARD CHIROMBO
In the empty nest,
So lodded to the chest,
With hope's heavy load,
During time's seventhe acre so filled with golden chuff.
A question of wholesome trodding,
The way life's sign posts we passed;
We saw, as we hopped along
The 'All-alone-inside' flag
Pushed by the warmth from our hands.
Such a sweetsome, fillfull feeling,
Abruptly hindered by the mid-nood shed:
Between Dedza Mountain and the Chikudzukudzu plain;
The clean-shaven forest and well-watered pavement;
A gintantic buiding now rests.
Beaten by the Salima mid-day sun,
Whipped by the Bembeke chill,
So often suppressed by Mangochi's southerly winds,
Unlike life's natural click
Peddling us where wishes an empty will.
They hymn and cry,
Heroic fathers before their bewildered children,
Subdued wived kissed by lukewarm water,
Scrawling down grandular oases.
Natural salt caresses the agony within.
The dilapidated buiding that brings hope to their tattered souls and minds,
Occupies the yard cosmology designated for my feet,
Cutting through the threads on wich stands your future and mine,
Grasing down the pasture that is you and me.