In This Last Wake Of The Eleventh Hour Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

In this relapse where stars shine in my eyes, I stand and wander how far I will fly. For I see the hills far away as near
as the doorstep on which I stand.

I have found the magic wand that brings all the secrets in the hills here where
I stand. The nectar is here for me to throw out. Those who build the richest
hive will have the most honey, for words
smell better than the pollen that spreads
from the farthest hills.

Yesterday I was buzzing around in strange
hives. In this relapse, I have
acquired a sting to resuscitate
a few even if die I must. For this new
sting when caught makes poets go
wild. They find deposits rich and crawl
into the deepest holes to piles of nectar
unknown. For such is the art of weaving
with words from the farthest hills.

In this wake the wings dipped in pollen
from afar leave a trail for everyone
to stir up their hive and build it strong
for naysayers will be stung to blindness
and come begging for healing words.

I see a trail of smoke at the mouth of
the hive. These fires that stop the swarm
have met their kind. We will rush through
smoke and spoke like the fury we are and
enter the hive a richer sum in number and
in the layers of honeycombs we make.