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Wednesday, 24 August 2016


Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much. Alan Paton 

Today's post is in form of a poem 

Ashes they say

Of course it is with a heavy heart I write this,
maybe it is a thing of movies or a screen adaptation
 of some news in far away land as my mind wonders.
And I say to myself maybe if it rains and thunders 
All this shall go away and be just that, a bad dream
 A market has burnt down to ashes, ashes they say. 

Maybe you too in dream land, one day could find peace.
What page in history mark our place
are we still bravely singing, wearing badges of patriotism. 
I swear though it all does not make sense to me 
all this even in all forms of narcissism.
 A market has burnt down to ashes, ashes they say.

As strange -eyed on lookers walk on by, 
There is no to reason why. 
As the earth that is dust, and to dust we shall all return, 
Hopelessness I feel, whatever hope is yours.
A market has burnt down to ashes, ashes they say.

As always, Stay Blessed. 

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