Scribbles

                                                Picture Credit: Google Death sits everywhere, Waiting, in anything it lurks, All things have its claws, To choke blue life's veins, at will, Death is a lace in life's dress! Gerry Sikazwe

                                                                Pictures: Google  Little birds sing,  Old negro spirituals.  Around the harbour,  These tunes they echo;  To cement the hearts,  To dry seas in eyes,  Of men,  women,  To brew liquor of hate,  In boys and girls growing.  Little birds echo tunes,  Before our strong brothers,  Before our pride, virgin sisters,  Before our fathers and mothers,  Are dragged by their necks;  As we do bulls when they plough,  Smitten like we treat thieves of corn,  Dragged as our cows for slaughter,  Into a mammoth ark, ark to slavery.  Little birds cry,  They shed tears with us,  Their hearts like ours,  In great a...

Who hears when her soul whimpers, Who listens to the cracking sounds of her breaking heart, Who sees her falling tears, Who hears echoes of her groaning voice, Who has ever imagined the feel of her aching scars? None, none but herself. She is not the child on a street vendors back, She is not that street child you pass by, She is not that old lady at the neighbor's, Nor is she that battered wife in the newspaper, But it is that woman, your mother whom you no longer heed, She is your wife whom you've abandoned, It is that young girl you are plucking away from education to marry off, It is them from your very house.