Soldiers Of Poetry Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

Our march is on,
We march with words,
Pour them in the soul,
And ask everybody,
To go for a cleansing,
With the tourniquet.
We tie the sores.
And then say you either
Get healed. or choose
To die a death. where
No words can awake you.
For your ears have stoppers
That nobody can take out.

We just pushed them in.
And tried to touch the
Eardrum. because we thought
You still wanted to hear.
For your heart is open.
When you turn the key,
With this kind handshake,
That has all, the pepper
Words can sprinkle
Into our stew so well
Cooked, that is shines
On the face of the plate
Called you son and daughter,
Of an elder whose teeth
Have gaps that remind me of
The smile on the face of the
Man who sired the grandfather
Of my children.

Let us soldier on,
Our is a burden of
The mind, that wants
To spill all that there
Is, so that others can
Pick it and hide it,
So that tomorrow
They can reopen, their
Bags and know we gave
Them bombs, to throw
At the enemy they
Did not see, who will
Be snarling on their
Door, when the clock
Strikes ten and the
Wink is closing on
The eyes, and the body
Says do lay me down,
For I have had enough,
Of this brooding, and
Can do with more than
A wink.