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Our long awaited table
refuses to turn,
In starvation we rejoice
in impoverishment we smile,
smile our tinted teeth-a slogan for poverty.
Hope, no longer in our anthem
Children,recite dirge
as their pledge.
Lullaby,no longer a sleeping
tablet to our filthy foetus.
Embryos, roll out tears
in protest as umbilical cord
turns desert.
Yet table refuses to turn,
yesterday we hoped-
till our hopes sang songs of
hopelessness with a cruise tune of frustration……..
as sleeps rules our eyes.
When will the table turn?
Our hopes lie in tomorrow upon tomorrows till tomorrow
lives in exile……..
When will the table turn? When we “turn” it. Wood hasn’t a mind of it’s own; it cannot even be imbued with magic. We’ll have to do the “turning”.