Poem: ZAMBIA: Elegy to fallen count

Zambia, my beautiful Mother, with an ugly face

Why do all the fruitful girls have to bear the curse?

Running, and more running, when there is no war

And enjoy no freedom even outside the putrid gaol;

The one who works is not the one who reaps

And the one who reaps is not the person who grips

Stolen mangos are paraded in the streets as trophies

And the sacraments are trashed aside as unholies

There is no room for the sane, the praying brain

Alas, the majority have boarded a wretched train

Don’t laugh; dreams are dancing in sinking sand

And hopes are dying on what the living call land

“I am not well today, Mother,” bleeds democracy

“I nearly pricked the gourd,” resounds autocracy

O, I hear a lawyer has borne the barrel of the law

Nay, a businessman is hesitating to swing the bow

Churn not, my children, tomorrow we will win

Speak out your mind, someday we shall grin!

By Charles Mwewa