Of The Solemn Poem by Mbusya Wa Mbusya

Muffled voices,
Of the children sobbing;
The feeling says
The mother is long dead,
And step-who is in the reign,
The father is gone,
To the sisal plantation
Or its equivalent (no one is sure) ,
Then to local pub,
To elucidate his ego,
Till midnight,
When the graves of saints
Pacified with solid pee
Of the latecomers and lovers;
Softly mourn…
He comes home finally,
Home, to battered self,
Vanquished souls of little ones
Dying of fear
And soil themselves
From the horror of adoption,
Owls come hooting,
The night is one evil
Holding hands with misery…

And when morning comes
Along age is gone
An era ended,
A new fresh grave is dung
In the veranda of the house
Where gutter water drains
Pellets of dirty and tears of the remaining other