On The Island

Cemented into existing
among grey buildings, long grey days
they listened keen on hearing any whispering,
even tried to hear the breaking of the sea,
the howling wind and rain sifting down

but everything was barred, as life in prison is
locked behind strong steel doors, shut in
where some people came as specimens
of a political cause gone beyond
civility with guns, bombs doing the talking
taking lives, killing
and time oozed on, as meaningless,
their lives were gone.

[Reference: On The Island by Dennis Brutus.]

by Gert Strydom

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