Waging Hope Poem by Thabani Khumalo

When the waging hope had fallen -
when I, Thabani, fell out grace -
when it was time to make a physical transition -when a poor spirit had to meddle with the functions of the soul -
when I was taunted into weeping and unhappiness,
I was tormented by an unreasonably enturbulated sense of feeling,
and my physical body remained in constantly the same state,
all of my body remained in excruciating pain.

I had lost the spirit that had contained - from conception -
the beautiful dreams of a foetus' sleep,
everything had gone dwindling on a downward spiral
and unfortunately the sorrow alone had stayed.
It was a difficult condition above the labors it came loaded with,
it was a great ordeal of dead hope rotting lowly on the low.
I knew I was a little child that had committed no crime,
absolutely no crime - in whatever way - incumbent
of any punishment of that magnitude;
I was a little boy with a dead little soul.

What's more important for me in life
other than having me ruefully try to save my own life?
Is that not a complete ambition for one to strive for and after?
I will save my precious soul using one of the ways,
Jesus may not be the way I will use,
still... it will be true that I am not a devil worshiper.

Life is uneven in every dimension of administration, it is true by manner or degree of measure,
some of the administration is obscured from the horizons of this world,
the one we are meant to access - is a prison cell.
Everybody, please cry for me.