I long to walk on that dusty roadwhich turns and meanders indifferently past igloo-like mudhouses past old makeshift fruit markets past brazen street vendors and past a pitiable lonely school homeward

25 years ago this day there must have been some joy somewhere there must have been some celebration where three, five or seven people must have ululated looking with glee at the small baby i was crying, laughing or sleeping 25 years ago this day a man must 

on their own they look like sheep on a precipice: meaningless unimportant
and vulnerable but shepherd them cull them carefully adorn and string them
together and they will sing words are like our bodies: denuded or attired in tatters they prick sharper than thorns

In my country beautiful, rich and serene children no longer sing of freedom of heroes fearless and futures beckoning temptingly here where once they frolicked merrily and sang proudly silence has descended wailing has taken over and the little ones’