The Moon weeps for Zimbabwe,
Proud Lady of Africa, friendless, folorn
In the winter of her desolation.
Delighting in her nut brown form
When we were young, I was her lover,
Fed and clothed with her oblation,
We flourished, blessed by one another.

The Moon cries for my chosen country,
Great Lady of Africa, focus and womb
Of freedom. Lusty, I lay between her breasts,
Hungry nipples wet with the wild spume
Of my kisses. In ecstasy, she drew
On the strength of my body. Our guests
The gentle milkers, the stars, the morning dew.

With the Moon I mourn for Zimbabwe
Grief, nostalgia? No! Anguish and pain;
Ineffable rage burn deep in my heart,
As she lies raped, dishonored, bound in chains
Between bulls, indifferent executioners,
Prepared to be torn apart.
Does anyone care? Does it matter?



Gaborone. Feb 2009