Cyril Ramaphosa
his voice box sometimes goes hoars-a
swallowed a Cheshire Cat, great white smile
running miles keeping da Amerikanos on the dial
at the edge of the red twilight, the voice of the people echoed weakly.
In unheard whispers, there is hope that is increasingly fading.
The streets are full of grey dust, leaving footprints without a new destination.
Behind the glitter of the bustling city, they are overlooked in a gloomy shadow of silence and peace. The voices of the people who are tired of screaming, reaching for justice which is increasingly difficult.
Burned by empty promises, but still hopeful in wounded hope.
Dusk turns into dark night, But the voice never went away. In the hearts of those who continue to groan, there is a prayer that strengthens the weary soul.
Ear pain—
invisible
When heard.
Quietly read,
Its title hides
In public—
so as not to offend
The fragility of the powerful.
......
the voices said
there's nothing like
waking up deep into the night
and not hearing any voices
and I believed them
As I stand, a poet in an ocean of words,
Unspoken feelings, unheard verses surge.
What is this craft, this calling to write?
Is it light for others or my own plight?
I pen the tales of others, the struggles they bear,
Yet each word I write is a weight I wear.
To live, to serve, to break free from norm,
A poet’s life—a perpetual storm.
......
Once I was starling voice at dawn,
A flock of chimed echoes on my tongue,
Wheezing whistles on choralled lawn,
Each verse a mimic so sweetly sung.
Now I’m a lyrebird lost in the brush,
Framing my solos in shadowed boughs,
With heart unfolding in trembling rush,
A lonesome lilting with hidden vows.
......
Ear pain—
invisible
When heard.
Quietly read,
Its title hides
In public—
so as not to offend
The fragility of the powerful.
......
Cyril Ramaphosa
his voice box sometimes goes hoars-a
swallowed a Cheshire Cat, great white smile
running miles keeping da Amerikanos on the dial
Who can detain me?
Unless I allow myself?
It's all right in here...
As I stand, a poet in an ocean of words,
Unspoken feelings, unheard verses surge.
What is this craft, this calling to write?
Is it light for others or my own plight?
I pen the tales of others, the struggles they bear,
Yet each word I write is a weight I wear.
To live, to serve, to break free from norm,
A poet’s life—a perpetual storm.
......