Poem Hunter
The Wind Blows
TS (11/01/86 / harare, zimbabwe)

The Wind Blows

Poem By tinashe severa

The wind blows
the leaves rustle
still..the mill of justice churns slowly
..too slowly
yet the wind blows
and the leaves still rustle

the ambers smoulder
the smoke drifts aloft
the fire does not burn
the masses are still enslaved
..the time calls for struggle
..yet the people still remain passive
..engulfed forever in a prison of self denial and self pity
the ambers smoulder,
aloft the smoke does drift
but still the fire does not burn

the old man tills
the old man toils unrelentlessly
unforgiving, untiring
..the old man tills
but the soil will turn no more,
no more will it bow down to a master
from whom all the sap of life
has been sucked from already
and so the old man shall till
but the soil will turn no more

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