With Precious Nothing In Ourhands Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

They that think in numbers,
wrangle with my fisted hands,
where hides my artist
kennel. They see no gem.

I stand looking into
this folded emptiness,
where once people peeked,
in and saw no wisdom
in my life of opinion
making, and called me
one who babbles for a
living.

So hurt I felt, till from
then on, I saw a gem through,
by folding and looking at
this world through my folded
fist as I did at birth.

You tell me of not knowing,
in this world of not nodding
no, when you mean, yes. I tell
the gem in your hand to fall
out, before it rots because
you did believe an untruth,
that we came with precious
nothing into the world.

Now I say no words, and
look for answers in other
words for they are from
other worlds.



























Mt fisted hand.











this fisted fist