Posted by: Ron DuBour | May 7, 2019

Murderers and Civilisation~by Christopher Sonti Mothiba



Murderers and Civilisation

I walk the grounds that mourns,
The feet of its owners,
Their footprint lost in an echo,
Of a band that sing with gunpowder.

Their souls to meet in a kraal,
That houses spirits of ancestors,
As murders pears skins with stones of steel,
While in song christened civilisation.

When thieve sculptured law to question,
My humanity as soul that deserve freedom,
My land looted by a murderer that cough knives,
Which smells death to the skins of my ancestors.

The sight of my father will be dictated to witness,
Gunpowder as sigh that calls civilisation.
Swift death, oppression and fear at a whistle,
Of a barrel is a tune that murderers call civilisation.

No tales in the scroll that was written by the hands,
Of foreigners relate of a being found naked,
Or of the face of my ancestors grazing pastures,
Dinning with impala and the giant tlou.

My sight has never being laid on a verse that reads,
My great, great grandfather as a homeless ass,
It can’t be a wheel that you brought as a signature,
Of this tale of murder that is named civilisation.

My eye knows a lyric that portray a monster,
That cracks a life out a skull that seek not to lose land,
And a sonnet painted in tears of mothers mourning men,
With children that will only know legends of their fathers.

Can this stain of blood and air felt with filth of gunpowder,
Be what murderers of villages entail as his pardon,
In a song of death with chorus that curse the word civilisation,
I know not a tale of this myth civilisation without a stain of blood.

My ear has never heard of my ancestors as carnivores,
That feed on a raw liver or limbs of toddlers and infants.
My ear has heard of a thief that floe across vast water,
In musk of a guest and hands holding guns.

I ask what this civilisation that you praise is,
The evil deeds of your ancestors reflect not,
A manner of being that know the reading,
In a bible on a deck of a ship where death is plotted.

I sight only a thesis of a murderer in a wording,
That a civilised men pride their blood stained souls with.
Seek not to point what a slave’s hand and thought helped invent,
Only cotton and a symphony of gunpowder are a length of your thought.

It can’t be at a forced dismantling of the customs of my ancestors,
At a tunnel of a barrel to the temple of a head that knows self-thought,
That claim of the arrival of a civilised man had set a foot on my soil,
But rather a witness to the arrival of a brutal barbarian with hunger for death.

The only way I accepted your barbarian methods,
Was with an eye that knows my refusal will prompt a couch of death,
Once again I a son of a native and will a with a joyless heart ask,
Beside murder what is this pardon called civilisation?

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