Two more poems by Shaaban

sarkodie@cats-net.com

 

 

Rwanda

 

I've never killed a man before;

a few chickens,  yes,

and once a goat at home,

when people danced in the village,

but not a man with eyes just like my own.

And yet it isn't hard.

I just shut out the voice that cracks in fear,

the accent so familiar  -

we all speak like that round here.

And then,  my panga chopping

like I'm chopping wood

I turn and fill the church with blood.

 

 

 

An expat drives to work

 

When I am far from here

and under distant skies

I wonder if I'll still recall

what daily meets my eyes:

the dusty road,  the scrubby grass,

the goats,  a cow or two,

the cloudless sky,  and then the sea

a deeper shade of blue.

 

 ©2005 Shaaban

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