Millar's Booths

A survivor By Rodger Munthali & Kingsley Kapito I smelt the violence The stinking loneliness The Dark hours Of ordered hypocrisy Chopping our souls Am lost in thoughts as you see Why loneliness does smell stinky Why hours so dark Does it seem an ordered hypocrisy? Why do I feel our souls are chopped thus? We were called then To witness betrayal In my attempt To mitigate The possible catastrophe Had not to be an Authentic friend to anyone 't was an awful site if am to remember Memories betray much as that betrayal was But see, I refused to go To witness It And am here, confused. If I only went Something, somehow, somewhat… At last we exhaled The Dark hours shearing With the white ones Though I know Its deception Good a few knows Then that’s how it all came pure The confusion is Darkness The color of my skin If my thoughts are Dark Then why do others see me As I walk to church Ain’...

WHISPERING WIND By Rodger Millar Munthali The chasm associated with language Blurs the indignation Incorporated within Stony hearts Awaiting sentencing Though far the cyclone May appear Its destructive whispers Haunts the victims ‘The Plague of the White Cyclone’ A rope running round The neck of the so-called sinner The other end to a car Cruising on the black rocky road ‘Yes, another Golgotha!’ But still the sinners fly To the place To face the tragedy of a lifetime Death lying In the hands of the White cyclone Ravaging the black child ‘And so goes the whispers’