by Nyoka

A mother has seen her children suffer.
She has seen them sink down into the depths of depression.
It is a pain that only a mother knows.
The pain of having your children,
ripped from your womb, one by one,
And thrown away into the hands of a world,
Unknown to them, unknown to her.
A world bleeding from the wounds of oppression, 
Oppression of each other, because of greed and hatred.
A world, where all they see
is the image of who they think you should be.

She knows she must let them go. 
Let go of the past.
But her heart aches for that sense of security. 
That hole can never be mended.
That love can never dissolve.
A mother sits back, and listens from the mountain tops,
From the rivers of hope that coarse through her veins,
From the desserts of her home-land.
She listens to her children crying.
Crying from a lack of love.
Crying from a lack of freedom.

She rises with every sunrise and morning dew.
Only to be awakened by the history that is a reality.
Her children have grown, away from her,
and away from each other.
Away from the hope that was once her creed.

Mother continues to watch over her flock.
She has seen the footsteps made to advance,
And those that have crippled.
Mother has learned the meaning of freedom fighter.
She no longer awaits their return,
But awaits the changes their absence can bring.

Africa by Nyoka

© Copyright 2003. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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