From The Quiet Graveyard Poem by Sicelo Sithole

It all came to me while I was writing,
Of the memories that held the pencil I use to write with, songs of my free youth
It is the mystery of all the promises I made from the quiet graveyard
I am not ashamed of confessing that for a while I was stuck in the mud,
That kept me going backward, into the world that gave me sooth instead of food
It is all the shame I saw on quiet graveyard,
which keep my other self in this darkness, forever.