Patrolling Raging Neighbourhoods Poem by Gert Strydom

Doing military patrols
in raging black neighbourhoods
at a time it felt
as if there would be peace no more
and that nothing
could end the mindless killing.

Humans necklaced with car tires,
sprinkled with gasoline
and torched alive
and the killing crowds’
inhuman laughter sent a shiver
down my spine.

Hatred shrilling madly
out of female voices
urging the killing
to go on
and the tragedy
of having to stop the slaughter
with a bullet and a gun
and graves with wreathed
pale white flowers
stretching up to the sun
made my soul to die
while I was still alive.