I AM JUST A POET

Somewhere in the deep dark night A child suppresses tears of shame and guilt Her spirit crushed, her innocence torn An Uncle, a family friend Drank greedily from her well of youth His thirst, a vile sickness in the dark. Beneath palms and ancient baobabs A homeless owl’s cry echoes in the wind Lonely, like the hearts of men who steal. A poor man, desperate for riches Cuts down trees whose roots he never nurtured And the land mourns with him, silent in its grief. In a thin space between the end and start A young woman holds her second-hand heart Broken, bleeding in her palms. She loved a man who danced too freely A man not ready to call her home Yet now, his hands reach for what he let drift. Where the sun rises, where our ancestors prayed A vibrant young nation chokes Its hands tight around its own neck. Fingers that should build Scratch and pull, blind to one another. The flame of hope dims Flickering like a tired candle With each heartbeat of a forgotten people. And what can I, a poet, do? Can my pen mend a shattered soul Or stitch together a land broken by greed? I am just a voice; but a voice is something A poem a day, like rain on thirsty soil Might lead them to the way.