Morning Rays
By Norman Mwale ‘The PenPusher’
Day goes along to sleep beyond the Mountains,
With anemic hope chasing after the Barren clouds
Whose belly conceive no light of Pregnancy,
The spluttering earth, veils of Dusty
Deprived of a single drop’s face Make up
Just to mollify itself from this Sobriety,
Like pieces of fallen timber,
Mother lies prostrate,
Her once beautiful lips dry- rot,
Cracked like the heels of an Antique girl,
The nation sinks below surface,
And moulders before sunset comes,
Dreams get stewed, squelched and Ridiculed by political muscles
And no ruins of their vestige Remain behind,
Except for the cremated ashes.
There is premonition as we dmell Summer!
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