22 November 2019

The crossing, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

Our children eat what food we kill, stray fowl, falcons,
some traitorous serpent, grub from the bottoms of rocks;
as all the way the boundaries of this region do not forget
to discuss with us our want to move—that never once—
not even when clouds of locusts pass overhead on their flight
to Egypt, should we stop and break the pace of our rhythm.

Across far-off continents people drop and are unable to rise.
We just dose everything, joyed by this zeal of out-walking
the ghosts of erstwhile years always behind us in ceaseless
morning shadows, us joyed by the taste of what lies ahead
once cemetery fields, well behind us now, wane in our wake,
the sun we approach daylight above the city of Qoaling
upon the darkened hilltop on which it will always stand,
as we dole out final pieces of the bread of love among us.




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