Voices Poem by Mbusya Wa Mbusya

I hear soft voice calling my name,
From the fields off the stream,
But I have been there,
And there was nobody;
Except sparse acacia, marigold flowers,
wild tulips and silence.
But echo reaches again,
Like ghost hands in a delusion;
Distress carried by wind fall
Asking if patience was my other name
But I sit by the river, with shinny
gaggling water,
turning golden in the setting sun,
the leaves of wild trees
whispering down at tear faced child of night,
pleading with the wind to take me home.

I hear a lonely voice solicit me
To go to places in search of
A stranger to hold hands with,
In rustle of turning pages;
somebody writing my name on a cherry dairy,
In dancing shadows of Lantern;
In whose bosom I hear,
noise of strumming guitar preparing for music,
I reckon it will be bliss
And I prepare to wait.

I hear noise on a long corridor,
Doors opening one after the other,
With pauses and clicks,
A sensation of somebody holding mystery keys,
looking for me…
And lighting candle burning by the table,
in front of sea side,
with clouds floating above the dark-blue water,
From which a voice calls my name
Asking if passion was place I knew
Then sudden laughter shakes the sash of the window
And breaks the panes with massage.

I hear dream coming to break a party
And voice calling above rattle of bells
Persisting that I give myself to the wind,
To be lulled in memento of fantasy and sacrifice,
A voice in search for belonging
Sounding like rubbing
Wings of Cherubim
And I feel in presence of star-light night,
tender hands grapple to touch my lips,
A muffled noise of cart
driven by white horses towards the local chapel.