Poetry, Tale Africa

No more graves to bury the dead

By Thabang Tlaka:

She gazed upon horror and never flinched,

Danced with the darkest of demons, yet still stands.

Her sweetest melodies are trapped in fantasies

Edged deeply in her bosom, yet

Constantly purged by a nebulous search for remedies

Africa, gazes upon her dead as they bury their dead.


She hears the voices, the echoing sounds…

Deep within her, relentlessly screaming: Alas!

“We are the living dead; we are born to die and are dying to live”

She hears the voices of the future deep within her…

The up and coming, the young and dying,

the passionate but dying

There are no more graves to bury the dead.


The silent assassin is ushered in by the shrieking mortality rates

Bold and boisterous the butcher stands defiant

Denying Africa a chance to mother…But!

She knows that the hunger within her shall be satisfied.


For as she painfully however, soothingly rocks back and forth

Harming lullabies to silence the restless voices

Through the ashes she sees, that which nobody sees

Through the savage survival story

She hears that which no one else hears

The hope, the life and the glory that has dawned upon her

Her essence, her gifts, her sons and daughters


And thus enlightened she stands,

Knowing that to love the other is to heal the self

And, to heal the self is really to serve the other

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