Fictional employees feasting on public funds
in failing fragile Africa - at least our database
is stable; I've never entered Charlotte Brontë,
my nostalgic doll, nor Jane Austen, my sweet
doll, nor a Snow Maiden figure, Snegurochka
she is called, very recent in the fictitious cast
of characters in my head - nor the loveable
Little Alien Pest hanging from rafters above -
nor any others who spend time with me in the
office, i.e., the 2 miniature wooden dolls - as
government employees; - my confident stride
stalled by a litany of ills besetting government
service in the Congo, my heart bleeds, how to
reform a Public Service of officials left to their
Own survival devices for too long, fabricating
cases as they were paid so little if at all - how
to coax them to relinquish & suffer even more?
I can't fathom how to save a country from itself,
wish for a way to help them without hurting the
fragile cadres chained to their very confused
and broken old statutes…
[10 October 2014]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem