While at war with my traitorous mind,
chastising my thoughts for venturing where I would rather not,
and doing this back and block dance;
throwing this wool cloth
over those confines of mind whose counsel I reject,
I am slapped by the beauty about me
that I so often absently brush off like the pester fly,
and rushed by the wind,
I close my eyes,
simply inhale the brush
touch of cool crisp wet and dry wind,
while embracing the delights my eyes devours.
Kampala is a beautiful place I gotta admit,
all those lengthy greens,
warm blooded and well meaning people
so often plunged down
into the chains of questioning their humanity
clashing with need and poverty.
So traitorous thoughts,
whisper once more to me
those sweet nothings that remind me
of how much I should be thankful for,
but this day reject what is not right
because that is a conversation
we have had more times than I can count.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem