We Murder Ourselves

Poem By Mpho Wordsworth Leteng

Our walk is a walk of fatuous minds to their massacring field;
Our walk is a visionless walk through the foot-path of obliteration,
Yet we still walk down that same road!

We still walk down that same road eyes reeled in strife;
We tread familiar conduits and hope for change to verge upon us!
Our sweat is nothing but another bloody drink to please hell
For we murder ourselves unaware

We pray midnight naked to white gods for black justice!
In return this gods gave us poverty, unemployment and mostly stupidity,
Yet we still walk down that same road praying for better days to come!

We still walk down that same road sightless to the actuality that
there is no government without the people,
We let that putrefaction of power impair our minds and choose to
remain voiceless,
Yet silently we cry for disloyal loyalty, for justice unreservedly unjust
and freedom that will never be free!
but is this the best of you and me?
Is this the best we can ever be?

We burn out in low tones
like the first chants sung around the tribal fires of the Kachikau people
We haul ourselves into depths of self drubbing
We murder ourselves unaware!

From: Steer Away from the shoals (2013)

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Other poems of LETENG

Hurled Into The Depths

cloaked in the dark waves of a Kachikau winter night;
the last faint gleam of hope glide,
scared out my wits, no one by my side,
who can i trust?

The Remnant Of Leteng

When they imprisoned our minds into the grave...
among the dead we found breathing bones,
When they crucified our bright crude crave...
some of us died battling a way out

The Last Cry Of The Soul Of A Dying Poet

My heart is wrapped with codes of death;
future foreshadowed by doom and gloom,
i fade away like a lengthening shadow
but thou i die, this i've been graced with will die not,


Nested in the far deep,
beyond the the distant tuples of moreish smiles,
beyond the reach of a dayheat intoxicated sleep
faraway but not too long if you walk a few extra miles,

Don'T Stand Before My Grave And Weep

Don't stand before my grave and weep;
For like poetry I only die in theories of my sleep,
'Rather merry with aromatic culinary mead,
Until myriad tear-tribes flow from your eyes and bleed.

On My First Call To Ingratiate Myself With The Poets

I fathered that night to dawn and hit the roadway early,
If i remember well Kachikau was waving hazily and giving a wry grin!
I paused for a moment twiddling thumbs of my chaffed hands,