By Richard Chirombo
Malawi is a colourful graveyard:
It was all red, black, and green at first;
Before the white dust blew from the East-
Beyond the blurred green leaves of Tea,
Resting below the swollen berries of macadamia forests,
Yonder the sweet, spotted bananas of Thekerani-
And stuck to the heart of the red, black, and green colours.
Now the white dust shines,
Blinding our tearful eyes,
With its insolvent rays.
Save for the remoteful baby-children cries
You will find no mosquitoes,
The stars shine no more across the skies.
The lake no more dances against the dark skies
Because the waves now carry tears,
Harvests from the fishermen's cries.
Malawi is a graveyard now:
Below this grave yard 18 bodies rest;
Above this graveyard,
Eighteen ghosts wonder about,
Sometimes they fly in the wind-
Often, they go with the wind,
So powerless to wrestle the mighty Southerly winds.
Stripped of whatever red, green and black clothing they had
They wobble against the sun's rays,
And wither against faint stars' light,
Only to fall by the tails of the winds.
These forgotten citizens are the winds,
And the rays,
And our wishes.
The unfulfilled hopes,
Waiting in the wings.