Paper. Poem by Thabani Khumalo

I don't know what it is about the problems of the body, they are all some type of a gruesome physical sickness.
I don't know what it is about the problems of the mind that it doesn't want to be clear about all things: The thought system thinks that it doesn't know anything.

This is an experiment we have performed on living flesh: by night we dropped pens and scattered them everywhere, by day we blew blank papers and they flung all over the place. Man trampled on them like dirt and swept them away as litter. All these men couldn't think that they could write anything important.
Then after some time we stood at the same corner, blew papers and man began killing each other, but we had blown these papers to litter the land. The mind of man does not think that money is made out of paper and ink. Man who is not in his true valance can not be healthy and an unhealthy person has no healthy mind.