Hematidrosis in the olive grove

To hear god whisper a prayer, we’ll need to pitch
our tents among the trees where he knelt, each
of us witness to how his elements touched heaven.
Alms will not be delivered unto us; no unleavened
bread nor wine for the parched heart, nor a harpist
of psalms; instead, the sun will sink east and rise west;
crimson drops will fall on our loveless group;
time, at best, will turn around and expel us from the tomb.

Halt the turning of the world, stop terror in the upper room,
the higher-life chamber, wherever it’s found. Make the moon
and the stars shrivel up and end, the ground right
for tracking holy prints from your feet
to ascertain our destination, the promise of hope
upon a mountain, a certain chance for our small troop.
© Rethabile Masilo


Time did not allow me to write this past week. At least not as much as I usually do. I therefore decided to present a month-old poem that appeared on my blog, Sotho. I was reminded of the poem by the Sunday Scribblings prompt: hero. As I say in that post, my heroes are Jesus, Mandela, and mum. And my brother. This is a poem, therefore, about a hard moment for one of my heroes.