Indeed, it is indebted to the rivers, glades and mountains
My hand bows before the lakes for thoughts to maintain
A good balance of what I need
And that of my master who leads
I felt fear growing on the back of mind
My hand and pen are honest and kind
Until the paper takes it to the streets
Unleashes its anger, then I will retreat
My happiness comes from this pen
Like a farmer who feed his hen
I will never take a rest
Not until I give my best
I am a poet of my own words
I will stand firm as poetry shifts the worlds
I will sing praise where it’s due
Curse the day when thoughts rue
Forgive my dialects, never mind
If there, something offensive you find
My words are harsh; take time, don’t rush
I bear no grudge or anger in my heart
Until I’m done with the hypocrites
I feed from dried vegetables and termites
Look at what had filled my roundavel hut
A calabash with foaming goat milk
It will be just an eye blink
Before you grant me peace, I won’t take a dive
Like honey in the hive
I will stay cool and calm
As my pen is called to arm
Written by:Rabelani Tshidino
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
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Indeed its really indebted to dry the tears of Africa,
that the children have drunk from the rivers of ill fortune.
My pen is indebted to change the societal hopeless journey.
The pen is a tool for social engineers.
The pen knows no rest, untill its brings back the splendour of africa beauty . Its a nice one indeed.
Sure…we all should be indebted.