Jobs Of The Revolution Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

Who said we would work,
for work was meant for those
who slave in the dark corners
of the firm?

In this revolution workers are
united against not knowing
what goes on in the pit
of the stomach of the firm.

Wake up knowing when to
revolt against the biggest
enemy of man. This thing
that bugs us most, this
ignorance.

It is worse than the poverty,
that bites inside, making the
stomach churn with hunger,
for when the mind is hungry,
it is a famine unheard of.

The job is there, for it lines
up spade and shovel and says
eat the fruits of ignorance
for you failed to open the book
on the right page.

You turn the page and the open
mind asks you, how much you
know about the shepherd who
herds the rich.

He is your shepherd too, for you
are in the fold, as we see your
breath leaving your nostrils
and going to stink in the vaults
of the earth where the rich,
blow their noses with dollar notes.

Your handkerchief with holes in it,
is meant to wipe your face dry,
when your sweat starts to get
powdered with the dust of poverty.

The choice is yours, in this nugget
of gold called time. The choices we
make follow us, wherever we go.
If you choose to lie in the mud,
know you made it your bed.

The birds will fly, one day drop
a morsel. For again they fly,
and look in your direction and
wonder, who lies there wiping
sweat off his brow waisting this
dusty gold called time.

The mine is open and every miner
goes in knowing what his job is,
for these jobs of the revolution
are dished out by a state that gives,
only if you take and use.

The time is coming when the mine
will have none of you. It will tell you
to get out of its depth, for you failed
to dig in the depths and follow the
furrow with the traces of gold.

You wore a helmet with a light,
lied to everybody and said you,
the miner turned forty niner,
would go down and work,
now you do a did with no name
for such is your confusion.

Take the job in this revolution,
that will turn happenstance into
what it was meant to be. Digger
with the helmet that shines and
calls to order, the whole mine to
give up what was put in it.

It is also yours to get for you are
down here working in a revolution
that will come to pass. Perestroika
will come and your hands will be
as empty as anybody who expects
the food stamps to rain from
the stamp collection of the gods.

Pick the stamps withe Harriet
Tubman's head on it, for the honor
comes late to those who worked
in the underground railway. This
revolution continues like all
struggles.