Munashe Rupazo

I have a dream that each day I call unto morning and rinse my face; I will feel the breeze of last and start something new. Something needed but not known to attention.
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Your heart is the function of my life, the junction to my freedom and happiness. Your eyes deviate me from my penalties, giving me the chance to oscillate my mind in your gaze.

Your gesture is what differentiates my luck from them, for I am graced by the integration of the Beauty and the Beast. In sets of our similarities, our intersection blooms day by day, for forever in the spirit we are tallied. Our intersect flowers year by year, for forever in the catalyzing intelligence of love we shall reside.
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Time flies, gentlemen I know!
Those days of pleasure and satisfaction
Those moments of mischief and appreciation
Those times of puberty and perseverance
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In my world there is no better person
I call Mother but my mother.
A woman I was born out of,
Whose love and tenderness I grew an expert.
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She does not mind what they do to her.
They can rip her heart,
And split her feelings into many pieces.
She might fail to bring them together,
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ENTER: I believe the 'wee of a day'
Is the early morning when
The babes are still sleeping
The cocks have not yet crocked
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FATHERS, WE HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU

The fish in the river died
And the river became foul smelling.
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In the deep sleep of a long day, I woke up at a woman’s scream.
Her face was emotionless, yet the heart bled agonizingly
From a pain injected at the loss of her womb a terrorist tore apart
For a reason “righteousness” finds no connection.
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Chisingaperi chinoshura, chinobhururuka chinomhara
Natsa kwawabva, kwaunoenda husiku
Vakuru vakataura kare
Vacharamba vachitaurazve.
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Open the eyes of my heart
That I may see, what lies beneath my breath.
That I may perceive what lies behind my back.
That I may endure finitely
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I would like to play music again
Without recalling events attached to them

I would like to visit places again
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It is not every tear that glitters,
Neither is every curse tied to positive tides,
But it is only the positive tide that glitters.
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Very often we seek love, warmth, caress, inspiration and motivation to move on.
Very often we ask for guidance if not from God then from men to confirm our decisions.
Very often we struggle to live through heartaches of solace and negligence in our own misery.
Very often, every day, we search, and keep on searching for a word of sunshine to survive....
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I have made mistakes in my history
It is nothing personal I am a black woman.
However, I remember to do the right thing
When those mistakes reflect back to me.
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When I broke off from the warmth of the belly
I had nothing decent.
When I entered another season
I had nothing decent.
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Men are different, I have seen,
Not only by sight, but by mind.
My choice is not her choice
And my decisions are not his
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Is it not the fate foretold, that where likely to head
Yesterday when we were warned and foretold?
Had it not been right if we did as were told
Yesterday knee-fold at their toes as they told?
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Tinofara tigosuwa
Tichivhiya nyambo pachoto
Asi zuva porogara makomo dzinongova ngonono
Shungu dzangu dzaingova
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When things happen the way we do not want them to, especially when we have alternative ways for a better result, a few of us tend to go against the present time with our own ideology. A few stand up for the lame and speak for speechless victims. A few revolt to declare the right of way in their own understanding the fairness and just of all species. A few of those people who change the world with their own sacrifices to prove that love deserves all and all deserve love, are subject to my title.

I saw a victim in the blinking of one eye. I thought her physical body was bandaged with chocolate brown cloths that looked like ropes. I saw her sitting in a usual manner, only this time I noticed it over the cracked toes. Her face proposed a succumbed gesture, tolerant to the thieves', Priests' and the Levites’ imprudence. Her dry-stricken eyes reflected back into mine as I looked into hers, I could see inside her detriment brains. I looked briefly without having one more word to describe ‘death calling’. In blinking the second eye, I felt for the poor girl, my old best-friend, who was thoroughly stricken by dearth and loss.
She was sitting, guarding on her other pairs of cloths. Condensing and precipitating in the call of anxious rains. She was once the smart, intangible prefect, but today she struggled in the emptiness of her own respect and fullness of regrets. She was the one I loved, the one who reminded me of positive things in life. She was once my mentor, my motivator, my aspirin, my cushion if ever I fell once or twice, thrice or many times.
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Inspired by my interests, I have thought about my fault and strife. Faults that I would not, until I gave in, take seriously and strives that I fell in but gave in to my own deeds.
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