Young cubs in the nest of an eagle,
feeding on a tiny beetle.
In every sphere belittled,
In search of a pater figure
since they were little.
His back in front of them leaves
No sentience, no resemblance,
nor bosom.
Search their hearts to the bottom,
and you will find engraved the image of him,
but none of them tattooed in his or his arms.
A separated mother screams,
for a cent to afford ice cream.
Too hungry as they scream.
She cries to her dream.
Her endeavours end up in her hands,
when she sends bottled messages
asking for him to go back to them.
'They love him because he loves me'
Said the mother's snivelling voice, you could
have sooner came back to them.
Yes it is true
'Honour has come to bless the turf that wraps their clay'
Influenza had a lot of influence
on this tiny cadaver laid beneath this tomb,
and yet again she yells 'come back to them.
The bone of your bone has rotten
whilst you were carnally deaf to
the imploration to go back to them'
Whilst they are still animate,
Go back to them!
Before perverts of your nature impregnate
your soon-to-be-promiscuous daughter.
Go back, before your young forgotten son
becomes that of gun.
Another woman can separate you from your wife,
but do not let her separate you from your children.
You are entreated to go back to them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Soon you'll be crowned King of poetry in Mzansi, beautiful poem.