I came, son, I came. . .
I came, but I did not go in
There were many already, many of them
I saw their limp faces, dulling eyes
They were waiting, maybe even hoping
I pushed my head through
I shook my head, I know not why.
I had heard, I heard
Words spoken in haste, with passion
Baskets full of words arrayed, some
Writhe and spit
Others prone in supplication
Words shooting straight, my earth moved
I could not believe
I had to feel for myself
The sound of pain had not moved me
I reach my hand to you
In the ground, I came
To press your body to mine
You had your piece of country
Pressing you
For now.
Farai Madzimbamuto
