Written by: Simbarashe Fungurani

Under a savage sun,
A sterile plane sleeps
In sad spoil, the storms
Recoil in stiff silence
As sand serpents sweat
To non-existence.
The explorer’s lens
Can not collect its far shores,
Where, he’s left to suspect, 
A brimming river flows.    
Not a tool can tell
His escape. No utensil to
Turn his sick spirits well.
The skies are broken,    
Pray heaven cries rain.    
Inflamed is the breast that nursed us all
The land of ancestor is in turmoil.
Stoop to your bruised knees pilgrim 
For your prayer is your only telegram!