Like every Saturday morning I woke up hungry, a bit jaded and Hoping to catch some leftovers I ventured into my kitchenette And lost my hunger at the sorry sight Of a wearied mouse in a bucket of water Tired from trying to climb out It paused at my sight, bowed its head For a moment, it bobbed up again Our eyes met and locked Its pleading eyes were unmistakable No doubt begging to be rescued I was moved to act, to save the unlucky mouse I propmptly carried the bucked into the yard And drained the water away slowly At last the mouse was out, and save I hope But she wasn’t, she could not be saved She tried to run but could not Her four legs could not carry her She shivered, bubbled and swaggered sideways She was going to die of cold, I think My mind was turn into two To leave her to fate or offer mercy killing For a second I turned my back, to leave Then saw a rock the size of a serving plate Which I carried and slammed on the dying mouse The mercy killing has...
Proud warriors in ancestral savannahs...is this your back that is bent. ~David Diop Sweat shed on ancestral savannahs Blood from our grandfathers' labours The bent backs of our fathers The pains of the proud warriors And the songs of our grandmothers Have all gone to ciphers We are history’s refrain, a tragic chorus of cycles This is not a disease, yet Our backs are bent like those before us This time from the toils we choose Our ancestral warriors in awe Watch us writhe in new pains Only this time not on the plains But in the cold gloomy northern winters Where we forget the songs of our grandmothers Who will save us now that we have gone too far Beyond the reach of our mother's voice and The long warm fingers of the sun.
There is a Bermuda in my room I would normally have kept this under the rader But my stuff kept missing First it was the left leg of my favourite socks Then my earpiece and then my red scarf The triangle kept taking my belongings like a huge hungry monster I've kept mum all along Hoping one day it might get filled and I might get to see those things I once owned and loved But it seems that's not to be And I am resigned to my fate Such that sometimes I pray That I may not fall into the darkness of this triangle Where the odds of my socks My orange rain pants My yellow saphire wristlet And my green comb All went without trace And I still would have kept it under the wraps But now I've started losing my mind Pieces of it are falling in a hurry, into that same Bermuda Tried as I might, they wouldn't come back to me Last night, I forgot the name I gave my dog.
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