Poem: Heavy Air

By Richard Chirombo
There is an air now; it is so quiet it scares goodness away-
Smoothering bumpy tempers.
Even the sunshine; so feeble it has this shy smile.
The trees in the land, that heap of clay by the lake, shake so doubtfully they attract the half-empty eye
The birds sing at long, dead air intervals:
Waiting for the sun,
Waiting for the moon that runs.
It is so  strange,
There is an enormous hole in the choral cords.

The air,
Passing by the sandless throat,
Makes this whizzing, shake-some brush,
So heavy a brush it is so tiresomely-difficult to say:
The truth.

It is far away where the sweet-nothings dwell
And those closeby hide the trouble in their smiles,
Nobody fels the truth,
No one sings the truth.

This thing about the land:
The water so bluishly black-
Anticipation so great in the mind-
Smoothering our beaming hearts,
In this, so-called a breathful train,
That succumbs to the endless winds.