My land bleeds from the same hands that once gardened her
The soil now spits the blood of our fathers and mothers knocked down by the children they raised
the echo screams the collective silence of the bystanders, us
the poets
the artists
the composers
the historians of our generation
Too many voices to sound
Too many troops
Too many tales
Not enough listeners
I break my pen
For what good is there if my words can’t speak my people’s pain
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Read more on: https://thebestofafrica.org/poetry/a-war-time-poet
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