Heléne van der Westhuizen. Unrest; Rage

 

Unrest; Rage

 

They are whispering but I can’t hear

the swishing voice of the wind

changing the season and

calling me to leave.

 

I don’t want to.

 

They are whispering but I can’t hear

he slushing voice of the sea

reaching her waves to catch the energy

pushing forward; rolling me out

on the pebble beaches of distant shores

purged and cleansed.

 

I want to, now.

 

They are whispering but I can’t hear

the grasslands rustling from my

place of birth – sweeping me

from their shelter to

spread my wings for their sake.

 

They want to, too.

 

They are whispering but I can’t hear

the screaming of voices, the guns left no choices

for preservation

of minds and hearts and bodies and souls

chopped up and holed in this:

the mother of all rages.

 

© Heléne van der Westhuizen

 

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