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The air dresses the night in red still, turning<br />
the eye of rage upon a world already much harried<br />
by the tarnished heirloom of history<br />
For some, living is the first test of courage. But like you,<br />
masking no intents, are those whose eyes<br />
have finally closed to the sanitary ritual of blood<br />
There are others in Kinshasa, in Bukavu, leaning<br />
on infested moments with frightening resolve of a prey; eyes that fear<br />
has made bayonet-steel, red-crossed, divining the greys<br />
of their dying moments for hope<br />
How much pain can you count in this world-forgotten nebula,<br />
caught in the blinding reseau like this, how much pus<br />
on the soles of those condemned to a blistering<br />
diaspora?<br />
Arrows of gloom will find their own Troy for grisly<br />
solicitude, leaving their wilful realism, dilated in oblation,<br />
to foreclose our cross breaths<br />
Today the world will sleep thinking of climate change,<br />
leaving me and you to gather the limbs of Congo,<br />
the giant clone in a violated field of gold.<br />
Bukavu<br />
Peter Akinlabi<br />
For Bapuwa Mwamba<br />
Saraba | Issue 13 | Africa 18
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