Winter shed the last of it's morning fog
and made way for spring's zealous rays.
The streets are a trembling silence.
Mist nests on a morning forgotten by the warmth
of the sun or the song of a bird.
There's an echo of an ugly cry piercing through
violent chants and a man remembers home.
The dawning dark bares what yesterday abandoned,
the night winds wouldn't blow;
the scent of burnt blood and the site
of a charred body.
The street lies unaware of the gore on it's back.
The aroma of maize meal porridge ushers in the day,
life is going on.
Hate is an unappeasable beast- man is it's raging owner.
