Fresh Flowers On A Dead Wet Boat Poem by Sicelo Sithole

Seasons come and go here
There is no one left to cheer
All is left is fresh flowers on a dead wet boat
Winters fall and all the emptiness reside
Through the walls mended and through the feeling inside
Neither screaming memories nor thorns of reason wonder here
All is painted now, are red thoughts of fear
Neither wheels nor pistils that grind the raw bread from the old oat
Silence prevails, silence roars in this land of the dead
Towers build and reconstruct, They say it is the hand of death that fed
What remain here now are only fresh flowers, fresh waters and cold air
These forever ring the silence in memory, writing only the art of the words bare