Crime In Progress Poem by Ofentse Mercy Hajane

In a desiccating cold of midnight mid-winter air,
two figure stood lost in their day's work,
one more candid than the other,
though looking at them, the translation thereof is lost in their peculiarity.
The less honorable stood high up, looking down at the half beaten bloke.
The down trodden bloke had his arms outstretch as though reaching for the stars,
it took me more than a minute to be aware of what was transpiring.
Even the flicker of a silver reflection did not stab through my mind as sharp as the kneeling bloke's fall did.
The soft and yet grungy language used only strengthen my suspicion,
What things of horror must be occurring in their midst,
for the silver wilder, what thick layered heart they must have,
that their deeds (their day's work)can only be mention in fourth tongues,
and for the fallen, what bad luck they must've had,
for them to slip so easily into the dark night to never emerge again.