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
