Restored At The Last Breathe
In the ancient lives of the comrades who speak and heroes and sheroes who sleep,
by Monica Rupazo
Sailed in the dim hopes of them who stood stubborn to believe did I,
They lay captive at the merciless grip of the local oppressor
There in their time I saw the compressed-strength grieving in their anxious minds.
They wanted freedom, yet hands tied to their backs, they could not do so.
They wanted war, violence and hatred to free the mental and physical pain.
But today, when I look, I do not see the chains.
Out of their comfort zones they tasted the bitter nature,
And fed granadillas from the wild’s belly.
They left with nothing less than fear, and nothing more than hope.
In the dark they kept walking as the stars shone on them.
Retrieving hope from the nodding, broken candle.
For once if they ceased to hope, their names would be lost.
But today, when I inhale, I do not sense the terror.
The drums of slavery-denial kept beating in their hearts,
As they hummed their voices and bodies to unbind oppression.
They took what was theirs, and handed it all to the children at the last breathe.
As ‘For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son’,
Our father’s and mother’s love was shown threw the dedication that they endure for us to enjoy.
‘Independence Day’, the greatest gift that we appreciate as children of one breathe.
Yet today, as I live, behold sunny native faces I see.
Ishe Komborerai Zimbabwe!